Tonight, I’m looking for someone new. I’ve only half been paying attention as people arrive. So far, everyone I’ve seen has previously had one of my spectacular trips. Now all they want is the same old rush. I could never be so pedestrian. With me you’ll always get a unique, shivering, half remembered ecstasy of yesterday.
Pfft, who really cares about them?
I’m bored, lounging at the bottom of the glass. I peer out at the revellers through my tinted window. Late afternoon and some of them are already hopefully searching for me. I do have a reputation, so I shouldn’t disappoint completely. I’ll give them each a taste. Leave them drooling for more.
I fling myself over the edge of the tumbler and scamper along the bar. There’s Seamus and Doug and Mary, Connor and Ann and Judy. I flash wild images at them through their cheap whiskey as I dodge around their fingers. It’s delicious seeing their faces stretch at the possibility of discovering me underneath the first few sips.
Ah, a visitor. I’ve not seen you here before. You look restrained, buttoned up right to the top and ripe for a fall. I scramble up your coat and settle on your shoulder. No, no sweetie, not the wine. You want something exotic. Admit it, your eyes keep darting to the hard stuff. Goodness me, Absinth. I will happily be your green fairy tonight.
I wriggle into a suitably verdant colour, sprout ethereal wings, and waft in front of you. Yes, surrender, come with me. You’ve never been brave enough to do this before, have you? Always chickened out. I see it in your eyes, all those parties where a friend urged: ‘go on, it’s just a tiny sip’. You chickened out every time so here you are with me and I’m also saying ‘go on, do it’ only this time, this time you’ll listen –
I zoom down as you swat at me.
Hey!
You could have hit me with that big ugly hand of yours. I should bite you. I should give you nightmares.
I fly up and nip you on the nose. You yelp. There, we’re even.
I zip over to the absinth bottle. I caress it suggestively, riding a leg up the side. Come and get me, sweetie.
Rubbing your nose, you tell the bartender to pour you a shot. He looks at you sceptically. Before you can change your mind, I pull off the cork and dive into the ocean of green. I watch you through my gloopy pool. I know I’ve got you. The lust, the craving is magnetic.
You insist this time. He must do his job, damnit. You appear to be sober, so he shrugs as if to say: ‘it’s your funeral’. He pours a shot into a faux crystal glass. I flow down in the waterfall. Then comes the magic: the slotted silver spoon, the cube of sugar, the ritual. Watching you, he slides over the glass.
You pick it up and peer down at me with mournful, questioning eyes.
Who am I? I am the Bacchus Sprite, though some just call me ‘Friend of Dionysus’. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a smudgy night with the vaguest sense that something amazing happened.
But this is boring, let’s play. See how my wings shimmer in this green little pond. After images follow me as I flit about. Go on, drink. What happens next will change you.