Molten wax streams down the copper sconce onto the night stand as  you light my cigarette and  proceed to pour  your   unholy green trinity of wormwood, fennel, and anise into a fine crystal goblet.   Holding the spoon gently to my lips I impudently turn away.  I do not touch your concoction until you feign fascination at the trivial anecdote I consider mundane enough to share with you.  Several sips later we lean casually into your brocade cushions and in a somewhat dreamier state you attempt to distract me  with amorous details of your recent dalliance with a french contemporary artist until I  dismiss you with an apathetic yawn. Suddenly, the embodiment of elegance, you  smile and arch your brow, once again  hold the spoon gently to my lips and in your impossibly delectable rhythm whisper that my hair and fair skin so near stirs your mind with  arousal…