Serita and I strolled down Rue Bourbon together, the long silences between us weighted with uncertain, nervous energy, the few phrases we exchanged thinly veiling our sudden estrangement. The Johnny Long Blues band was performing at the Old Absinthe that night, but it was early and the place was half-empty. We sat down at the bar. In front of me stood the ancient brass and marble contraption used for 175 years to dispense the essence of wormwood to patrons. An angel's form was reflected by the tap-handle, the spigot in the shape of a plumed serpent. Beneath it was the brass perforated cup that held the wormwood. Below, the marble basin was eroded one inch deep from the dripdrip of years of Absinthe. The bartendress wiped the oaken bar and asked for my order. "I'll have an absinthe please,"I said,"and one for the lady." The waitress gave me a weary smile."There's no absinthe. Been illegal since the twenties." I frowned."Sounds like false advertising. I'll have a Four Roses. Serita...?" But she was gone. I wasn't surprised.

"Tough night?" said the bartender, setting a tumbler down in front of me."Yeah," I said, picking up the glass."Needs some tenderizer." The lamp behind the bar cast a green beam through the liquor. The barkeep caught my puzzled look."You said absinthe didn't you? I keep a bottle especially for outcast souls." I drained the liquid, feeling the heat in my chest."D'you make this stuff with drain opener?" She smiled again. "you missed Phil," she said. " He said meet him at Poteet's on Toulouse. Wanna cab?" I snorted "hell, no, I can walk." "You sure?" she said. "Watch me," I answered, and stepped from the barstool onto a soft mist that enveloped the floor of the tavern. Smiling, I skated smoothly to the door and out into the chatter and flash of Bourbon Street.