Except that he was not in heaven, nor in the presence of God, but sitting in a rickety chair in a dingy room on Dauphine Street, one of the many such rooms around New Orleans, where sex was bought and hungers of all sort satisfied for a mere sixteen cents. He should have been ashamed that he had descended into such depths of depravity, but he no longer cared. All that mattered was that medicinal ecstasy rushing through his veins, that pulsing in his head, that throbbing intensity that Anne’s tongue and fingers drew out from his groin as she licked and sucked on his flesh.

All that pleasure, all that shattering desire coalescing into rigidity, an acute sense of self, and the need to take, to own, to feel everything, yet nothing, to be utterly in control, yet surrender, surged up in Gabriel, and he accepted the physical release. His human body let go of its messy brand of satisfaction into Anne’s mouth, and he closed his eyes, sank back, went up, then down, embracing the darkness, the incoherency, the oblivion.

When he pried his lids back open, he had no idea how much time had passed, but the candle on the nightstand had burned out, the bottle was empty, and Anne was sleeping in her bed. His mouth was dry, and he reached for his glass and tossed back whatever drops of diluted absinthe were still clinging to the bottom. There was a sour smell in the room, but Gabriel ignored it, knowing a foul odor was not out of place in the House of Rest.

He was relaxed, still floating, his vision sharp and clear, tumbling over the familiar hulks of furniture in the room despite the dark, and he enjoyed the vision of Anne lying in bed, one arm above her head, the other carelessly abandoned at her side. Most of her figure was in shadow, but the free arm was milky white, caught in a pool of moonlight bursting through the slats of the broken shutters on the window. That elegant limb beckoned to Gabriel, made him struggle to reach the paper and pencil he kept next to his chair, at the ready in case he felt the urge to sketch. He hadn’t, not in months, but Anne At Rest spoke to him, and he moved his pencil quickly, capturing the bed, the hidden figure, the beautiful, illuminated arm.