Under The Moulin Rouge

She said to meet at noon, under the shade of Moulin Rouge, where he, the master had once stood, though swaying, full of straight Pernod, he'd slur his speech, of course but was immensely proud he had created the label for his drink, Pernod Fils. The sons of what or whom? Monsieur Pernod did have a wife though all his interests lay on stony fields near le village Quimper, where stout and handsome peasants toiled to grow those sweet, exotic plants, he'd go and stand among the rows to see, and taste the virgin crop by rubbing leaves between his ladyfingers and the sapphire ring until a whiff of strong absynthe emerged, he'd lick it all and offer to his learned friends a taste of what they knew would please the gods. And with the fingers of the hand, still wet from what would grow into Pernod, or Pernod Fils, he'd fondle les garçons inside the cellar's vault. They'd use the essence from great vats to dab and thus refresh their sacred parts, it was routine, he'd spend the night and on occasion weekends at the lab and they would eat their onion salad with sardine. She was too punctual and he hurried from the square, her arms flew up and waved as if to greet a god, he thought she looked like a still growing Bartlett pear, she would not do he thought, his feelings were too odd.