Sipping tea
The Flâneur always holds a tea cup the proper way: handle grasped firmly between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, saucer balanced below it in his left hand, protecting against accidental drips and spills, thereby facilitating the delicate partnership between tasse and soucoupe. As I sip, the remaining three fingers of my right hand extend upward like a sea fan. My mercurial pinky rises a bit higher than the other two, pointing up toward the planet that influences it, communicating something like the messenger god for which this planet is named.
You see, on this finger is a ring fitted with a great blue stone. As I sip, cafe passersby always glance at it glinting in the sunlight or in lamplight. They desire it as intensely as I once did. After all, this is how I first saw it: on someone else’s finger, late at night, sparkling in gaslight. Following its original owner away from the cafe that night, I cornered him in a nearby alley. I surprised him in the shadows, pinned his arms behind his back with my cane, and pushed him against the stone wall. I remember whispering into his ear (nibbling and licking it a bit as I did so), removing my jackknife, and taking both his ring and his finger. His porcine squeals were enormous until I rapped his head with the brass handle of my cane and sent him to the ground in silence.
I then strolled away, keeping both finger and ring ’til I disposed of the former in the river. The ring, though, is mine forever.
