Laurie Hall, a native Californian transplanted to New England, currently lives in Plymouth, Massachusetts, with her cat (and Chief Shreditor), Sam. Laurie’s short stories have been published by The Hedgehog Poetry Press (U.K.), The Arcanist (a contest winner), Page & Spine, 50-Word Stories, Thurston Howl Publications, Peter R. Talley, Feral Cat Publishers, the Woods Reader, and Nothing Ever Happens in Fox Hollow—several under her pseudonym, Lauren Stoker.
“This story is based upon Edgar Degas’s painting of the same title, The Glass of Absinthe (1875-76). As an art history major at UCSB, I found this painting to be the most intriguing of this period. It’s one of my all-time favorites, revealing the disconnect in so many relationships, of infidelity in its subtlest form.”
It is my birthday. Yet here we sit, Étienne and I, cômme toujours at the Bar Sans Nom—like so many of its nameless inhabitants. The irony is not lost on me.
Such a little thing, a birthday, such a small concession to make, n’est çe pas? Out of 365 days in a year, has not one earned a special celebration on one’s own day? And today I am 30. It seems such an age, especially as, after six years of engagement, I am still at the end of the day unmarried. Une vieille fille.
Bien sûr, Étienne has assured me, with sweet promises and kisses whenever he wishes something from me, that we will be wed. But each time I gather the courage to ask him when, he becomes sardonic and sulky, or suddenly must dash on an urgent errand.
We were supposed to visit ma petite mère today. I was filled with joy at the anticipation. Étienne knew it was of great importance to me to be with her on this birthday of all birthdays. It is a landmark, vraiment, a turning point in a woman’s life. En outre, I had not seen my mother in so long. I cannot count the time, although she lives barely outside the city. And I worry. She has not been well.
In good spirits this morning, we set out in his buggy. The trees in the Bois de Boulogne were again in leaf, the cherries in bloom. The spring air was clear and smelled wonderfully of lilac and warm brioche. But gradually Étienne became impatient with my chatter, the other drivers, les gendarmes imbéciles. He began looking at his watch with a sneer. Truthfully, the traffic through Paris was foul, but no worse than usual, certainly no worse than many days and nights when Étienne has fought his way through the snarl, in good humor, to some destination important to him. Yet today, after only une demi-heure, 30 pathetic minutes, he swore, whipped his poor mare and turned the buggy around, vowing he would not travel further!
My tears and pleas were as nothing to him, not even the fact that this was a special day for me, or that he was breaking maman’s heart, as well.
So we sit at the Bar Sans Nom, as we do most nights—he with his small glass of port and his noxious pipe, ever in his mouth, I with my glass of absinthe and lost dreams. A grave celebration.
We look like a couple, sitting so, side by side. I assure you, we are not.
