The letter arrives on Wednesday, sitting quietly in his mailbox, confirming the time and date of a peculiar “cocktail party.” And so Michael* finds himself waiting outside of an unassuming door the following Friday at exactly 8:31 P.M., alone. The one window is dark. And then, a door opens; a short hallway, a candlelit room. Jazz, incense, and three tables, a couple whispering at one, heads nodding. A bartender looks up. The first three buttons of his crisp white shirt are left undone. He wears a gold lapel pin. Behind him rests an antique fountain with a murky green liquid inside, seven small crystal glasses, and seven silver slotted Absinthe spoons. The only other person who seems to notice Michael’s arrival is a woman, beautiful, alone, seated at the last table, wearing all black save for a single chartreuse rose in her hair. The door closes.
Thirty minutes later, the door opens again, and Michael reappears. In his front suit pocket sits a single chartreuse rose. He closes the door; Passerby ignore him. Michael looks down at the small black card in his hand. On the back, something scratched in gold: Now. He smiles and slowly walks away; his shadow stretched long in moonlight.
*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of our clients.
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