He even sounded like him—that raspy voice of his. I replied that all three of us had done worse things to our heads in the 1960s and 70s and that I just wanted to try it for a writing session. He told me to wait a bit and he'd go find me a phone book. So Deni and I sat and talked and 20 minutes or so passed. Just as I was standing up to leave, Kris came in through the door carrying a bottle of absinthe, which he handed to me.
"I had a feeling you were out getting some," I said, laughing.
"I wanna to read what you write," he teased. "And it better be good."
We all hugged goodbye and I left.
I took a sleeping pill last night and slept 10 hours without interruption, which was great, but when I woke up I realized I didn't have the absinthe after all. Or that Deni wasn't married to Kris Kristofferson.
Damn.
