Trekhprudny Lane

Tonight a date with A., at an old bar/cafe up one dark chilly staircase from a theater. Along the irregular walls, beneath a chandelier so antique that the crystals had darkened, stood Dutch-style wooden credenzas, battered, on their shelves old crockery and carafes of unlabeled liquor. 

I drank absinthe. The jewel green color of the drink and its paraphernalia are lovely: a miniature glass pitcher of cold water with crushed mint leaves floating inside, a slender shot glass of pale emerald liquid, topped with a slotted silver blade on which a cube of sugar rests, and a box of matches. The waitress soaked the sugar in the absinthe, struck a match and lit it. A tiny peacock-hued flame, cool blue and green! The tiny cube sputtered gently and slowly collapsed, its edges browning into caramel syrup. I added a few drops of the herbed water and sipped: sweet licorice.