I mixed them New Blacks: whiskey, Averna, absinthe. The students drank too quickly, making faces at the spritz of wormwood.
The crowd built, and I listened, absorbing the rhythms of art world chatter. The line for the bar was a stream of small talk and introductions. It was like being onstage at No Drama, except my scene partners were finally real.
“Knife-thrower,” came a familiar voice.
I looked up from refilling the ice and felt the flutter again. “Hiromi.”
She was in a shirtdress of brilliant green silk, the one she’d cinched with a gold belt at her last opening. This time she wore it unbuttoned as a coat, over black trousers and a shell top, revealing a band of midriff.
No rough edges. No uncertainties.
“You look lovely,” I said, wanting to touch her.
She was frowning. “You look different.”
“The hair.”
“The everything.” Hiromi leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Right. You’re in disguise.”
I nodded. “Jessica Anderson. Pleased to meet you. Can I make you anything?”
“I don’t drink. But I promised my friends something fancy.” Her voice dropped again. “Because I’m a personal friend of the bartender.”
In a cluster behind her were three women and a man, all familiar from her socials. The man, Danny, was telling a story that had the others laughing. Crystal, with the pink hair, was Hiromi’s best friend, and knew Ayana and Miyeon from their MFA program in Chicago. All four were “emerging artists”—older, more refined versions of the students, with less jewelry and better haircuts.
I dropped sugar cubes into four tumblers, dashed them with bitters, added shots of absinthe.
“Garrett told me you’d be here.” Hiromi drew a small paper bag from her pocket. “I brought you a present.”
I popped open a bottle of good champagne, topped the drinks off, then took the bag from her. It opened with a sugary, citric bouquet—bitter lemon drops.
It had been five years since Peter’s last trip to the store.
“Are those the ones?” Hiromi asked.
I nodded, entranced by the little orbs of dandelion yellow. That summer flooded back: the smell of ashes drifting in the wind, the chapel reduced to a black skeleton and a few stone columns, a single precarious spire.
I hadn’t tasted lemon drops since, saving my allowance for amaro and bitters.
“I love old-fashioned candies,” Hiromi said. “All candies, really.”
“You should see our local candy store. Abba-Zabas, Mary Janes, Slo Pokes.”
“I have to visit sometime.”
“Thank you,” I finally remembered to say. “I’ve missed these.”
“Glad they’re the right ones.”
We stood there for a cumbersome moment, then Hiromi picked up two of the glasses and turned toward her friends.
Suddenly, Arabella was beside me.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said softly. “I’ll manage.”
I picked up the other two drinks.
Breaking into the circle was easy—I was bearing alcohol, and Hiromi made space for me. She introduced her friends, who looked younger than in their curated socials.
