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L’Absinthe

Jennifer Ziegler

The taxi seat is cold against my bare skin. I sit on my hands, willing the driver to turn up the heat and turn down the Christmas music. It’s January. Ugh. I should’ve worn a longer skirt.

The city is breathing. Mist floats up out of the grates from the subway. I bet that air is warm at least; it might thaw out my frozen body. The cab slows.

The Absinthe Drinker, the driver reads. One leg of the easel is shorter than the others. It tilts slightly to the left. He looks at me.

I’m nervous now. What if I react strangely? What if the police come? Though I’m sure they have more to worry about than a small group of artists sampling absinthe. It is for art’s sake after all.

I step through the doors of the gallery, glancing once more at the lopsided easel. The ambiance is odd. The tables of alcohol are lit only from underneath. The green liquid seems alive in the glasses, like emerald light. Everything is tinted green. I take a sugar cube and slotted spoon and glance around me. What are these for?

A girl with pink hair and a pitcher approaches. “Cold water?” she asks.  

I stare blankly.

“For your drink,” she hints, miming a pouring action.

I study each piece briefly. There are so many paintings. I am terrified of choosing the wrong one-- Manet or Picasso? I settle myself in front of the Degas. I am drawn to her, to her sad eyes. Cheers. I raise my glass and drink. I didn’t realize I had closed my eyes.

 Edward kisses my cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” he whispers. He downs the emerald light in one gulp. He recoils.

I smile, taking another glass. Maybe I should have mentioned the sugar.

I try invoking the Green Fairy, as if she is my muse… nothing.

Edward moves to the Manet.

I feel dizzy. The painting swirls in front of me. Her eyes widen and bore into mine. I can feel her. Je peux la sentir…

There is a sharp pain in my head, something poking me. I reach up. A hat pin pricks my finger. I bring it to my lips. I am Sleeping Beauty. My head droops. Tightness in my chest-- when will corsets finally go out of fashion? My hands fall to my sides. I cannot raise them.

The air smells of pipe tobacco-- Edward. I am in Paris. I know this is the last time I will return.

I didn’t realize I had closed my eyes.

Based on Edgar Degas's The Absinthe Drinker, 1876
Musée d'Orsay

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