Worlds Without End by Caroline Spector

height of fashion.
    Besides, I had to keep people more concerned with my dress than my nature. Unlike you, it hasn’t always been easy for me to pass through human society. The color of my skin made it difficult at best. And my hair ... I guess those are things people might remember.”
    “I remember.” he said. His voice was soft, and suddenly it was as if we were all alone. That was a gift of his, making you feel as though you were the only person in the world. “The dress you wore was gray silk, shot through with jet beading. You had a hat on which had an enormous feather on it. Ostrich. Or was it peacock?”
    “Peacock.” I said softly.
    “And you were drinking absinthe. I remember it looked as though you were embracing a lover when you drank.”
    I shut my eyes . . .
    * * *
    The first clear day of April. Paris, 1854. I sat in a cafe on the Rue Saint-Jacques. At the time, I didn’t know its name. After a while, I wouldn’t care. I had found something powerful enough to distract me from the horrors of living: absinthe.
    My own sweet mistress. My dearest friend. The green fairy in the bottle who would steal a little bit of my mind every day. And how I adored it.
    The rituals I’d built up. First, a stop at the bank where my pounds would be converted into francs.
    Then on to the small bakery for a pastry before I went to my first real appointment of the day. I told myself that as long as I ate something before I drank I was fine. Hence the obligatory croissant, most of which I threw away on my way to meet my little friend.
    That’s what I called it: ma petite amie. Perhaps I should have said mon amour, for that was indeed what it had become: my dearest friend, my closest confidant, my love. And, just like all lovers, we had our rituals.
    There were a number of cafes that sold absinthe, and I was well-known at all of them. In the spring and summer, I would settle myself at one of the outer tables. To take the air, of course. The air was very important—far more healthy than the smoky atmosphere indoors. In the winter, well, I just endured the smoke and noise. The things you will go through for a loved one.
    After I sat at a table, a waiter would come over with the jade bottle, a water jug, and a glass. He would line them up neatly in front of me, then fill the glass with water. I tipped generously, and they knew what I wanted.
    From inside my reticule, I would pull my silver absinthe spoon. It was slotted and diamond-shaped, intricately carved with flowers and scrolls. The spoon was placed over the glass. Plucking a sugar cube from the jar on the table, I would place it neatly atop the spoon.
    Next came the moment I liked the best. First, I uncorked the bottle. The aroma of the absinthe floated to me. Licorice-scented and bitter.
    Then I slowly poured the absinthe over the sugar. It dripped through the spoon into the water, swirling the color of new leaves, turning the water cloudy like a stormy day. The sugar cube sometimes wouldn’t completely dissolve, and I would take it into my mouth, sucking my first bit of ecstasy from it.
    When it crumbled into nothing, I would take the spoon from the glass, then slowly lift the glass to my lips. What wonders will it show me this day? I would think. What sweet remembrances from the past would come to me? What memories would be created to fill my mind and keep me from the truth ?
    And as I felt the warmth rush through my veins—sliding into my mind, seducing my thoughts—I would smile. Sometimes men would come to me and tell me how beautiful my smile was. So I would smile at them until they became nervous and went away.
    And so, on that clear spring morning in April, when I saw Caimbeul for the first time in many a century, I thought, at first, that he was a product of my imagination. That I had conjured him up from the pretty places I went in my mind.
    “Hello, Aina.” he said.
    I smiled. He smiled back. I didn’t say anything; neither did he.
    He didn’t go