The ice went in first, then, when Fred brought the water, he added that, too -- slowly, slowly, to let the ice chill the water as thoroughly as possible. Absinthe was about experience. The whole of the production was meant to be slow, a seduction culminating in the drinking of it. Rushing any part of it was a waste.
"Thank you, Fred," he said, keeping his eyes on the business of preparation. He liked what she said about 'too much thinking' and she was right; absinthe cleared the way for a better creative endeavor. Or so Toulouse had explained.
But when she sat beside him and started asking questions, he looked away again, setting the empty pitcher gently on the far side of the coffee table. "Yes," he said, meaning 'no.' It wasn't meant to be a lie; he just couldn't quite bring himself to tell her what was weighing on him. He'd been a fool. It was not easy to admit, and it was even harder to explain. Satine and Enigma swirled together in a sickening cocktail of death, betrayal and sorrow. He filled a measure each of absinthe into the reservoir glasses, then set absinthe spoons on the glasses, and finally topped them each with one sugar cube.
"No," he said, without looking at her. Gently sliding the glasses under their spigots, he turned each facet on until drops of ice water came one after the other onto the sugar cubes.
"Watch," he said, pointing to the contents of the glass. "The process is part of the enjoyment." Those famous clouds - the louche - began forming as the absinthe mixed slowly with water. At last, he leaned back on her couch and rubbed his forehead with a hand. "What do you dream about?" he asked, wanting to turn the topic.