It was several minutes past midnight and I was already loaded. I have this thing with hands when I travel down this road, which invariably leads to several stages of undress and a mind-numbing headache the following morning. I grip my hands tightly -- the whites of the knuckles are showing -- and then I turn them over so that the palms face me. As I open them, I count the time it takes for my hands to return to rosy pink. Immediately after, I repeat the process and attempt to benchmark it with the previous trial, which ultimately is an exercise in futility. I forget. I forgot. Forgotted?
And just as I was lamenting my forgetfulbility, I am directed towards a sticky bar where three absinthe drinks are prepared. Recently granted legal status in the United States, I happily obliged. Three cubes of sugar were placed on three porous spoons sitting atop of three small cups. A bartender took a small torch and melted the sugar cubes, the milky dribbles swirling in the dark liquor, producing a light froth. A cheers, bottoms up, and swill later, I sit back, pupils dilating, turning my attention to a local blues band. Someone is yelling at them to play "Freebird".
Figures.
No fairies, no mild euphoria, and no "Freebird". One girlfriend in the bathroom, one friend hunched over and straddling a bush outside, and my mouth fuming of black liquorice. I continue to sit at the bar's edge, watching a couple tango to blues. Actually, it was a boyfriend pulling a sloshed girlfriend into sloppy syncopation. It is marvelous.
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