Absinthe

On the second night, I made a new friend. He is light blue, transparent, and when lit, he burns. Oh how he burns..

He told me about his comrade Van Gogh, and about their adventures. He told me that the moon is really a lost button hanging off the jacket of the sky. He told me that the curls of cigarette smoke over the table were really the hair of his mistress. I kept on exhaling, and he kept on burning. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

The tram moved forward, and I sat back. It was late night. Or early morning. In the distance, the grim, black statues of the Charles bridge stood freckled with white dots of snow. I suddenly felt amiss of the old russian cab driver who would usually take me home at this hour. The long expanse of the Verrazano was now replaced by the stretch of statues and the gothic castles piercing the river fog. I felt an urge to find someone with a common tongue and reminisce about the old times we never shared.

The aged, soviet tramvai bulged forward, empty save for myself. But Van Gogh tickled softly from within my stomach and I smirked. Perhaps this tramvaichik would not be so bad.

After all, who knows what stop would come up next?