"If you weren't strumming that chord over and over, I might think you were asleep," said Howard.

"Yeah, you might be forgiven for thinking that," replied Memmy. "No, I just rest my head on the body of the guitar. Here. Like this." Memmy's head didn't move. It was already on the body of the guitar.

"Don't you guys play electic guitars," asked Howard.

Memmy didn't look up. "Not when we're depressed. Hey, hand me that bottle, would you?"

"Which bottle?" asked Howard.

"The one that's not empty," said Memmy. He still hadn't looked up.

Howard shook several in sequence. One sloshed.

"Absinthe?" he asked. "Do you want me to get you a spoon and some sugar?"

"No," said Memmy. "Sugar's gone. Spoon is all crusted with ... well, 'stuff'."

"Glass?"

"No thanks."

"From the bottle, then?" said Howard.

"Yeah."

"You know, in la belle epoque, it was the mark of a hardened alcoholic to drink absinthe from the bottle."

"Yeah, whatever. You know this chord. It's an 'E'."

"OK."

"One of the earliest chords I learned. You can slide it. Barred, you get any chord you want. Any chord whatsoever. With just a little bit of pressure."

"Pressure," asked Howard. "What would you know about pressure?"

"Well, I know that it's what drives a man to absinthe. If he wants to further his career."

"No," said Howard. "It's what drives YOU to absinthe. When what you think you want is to be a rock star. And not to play music. A little pressure, Memmy. Remember?"

"Not really," sighed Howard. "Hey, when was the last time I had a drink?"

"I'm not sure, Memmy," sighed Howard. "I'm not sure."