“Back again?”

Art nods.

“Same flask?”

Another nod. Always the same flask.

Parataxis leads Art past aimless dream browsers to the back room.

Reaches a flask from a head-high shelf. Tenebrous emerald vapour writhes and swirls within the bulbous form.

“Getting low…”

Art shrugs. Hands over two crumpled notes.

“Sweet dreams.”

Art doesn’t reply. Heads to a booth in the darkness, draws the shabby curtain closed.

The cork stopper releases easily, loose through repeated use. But snug enough to prevent the precious contents leaking.

Misty green tendrils crawl up the slender glass neck. “Like it knows me…”

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