In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

"Couldn't hack it as a hairdresser, haha, hack it, hair, get it?
Hahaha," Ula whooped, and slapped her bony thigh.
"Think I'll have the wormwood after all."
Ula got up and went to a glass topped gurney lined with bottles
and brought back, arranged on a silver tray, the Absinthe, an engraved
crystal glass, a funny perforated knife-spoon-spatula thing, a matching
silver bowl of sugar cubes with scary four pronged attenuated pincers
to pick them up with, and a crystal art nouveau bong-thing with spouts,
filled with ice water. She began the curious ritual on the amoebic coffee
table that was supposed to match the new floating rocks sofa and the
anti ergonomic chairs, performing the ritual with the humorless pomp
of a Japanese tea ceremony. A pogo-like spring activated the pincers to
clamp around the unlucky cube. Ula set the cube in the middle of the
knife-spoon-spatula and dribbled the green liquid over it until it
disintegrated, dripping through the perforations of the spoon into a
moiré of greenish swirls at the bottom of the glass. All familiar from
the red salon, minus the fancy bong, that night of cellophane and jello
shot jokes.
The green stuff was bittersweet, herbal with a moldy licorice
after taste, reminiscent of the rancid cough medicine dispensed by the
elementary school nurse, and Penny gulped it down as she had then.
Lamp wires trailing on the floor behind him, Dick waltzed in
from the back of the loft, droning over the a capella disco streaming
from the kitchen, "Biomorphic, you know, it's Groooovy time, all over
again! My, my, plus ça change. Take these Blob lamps! Incandescent D
cups! And the subtle phallic suggestion of this one, imagine them
glowing together in a dark room. Such a turn-on, hangh hangh!
Wouldn't you like this erotic pair for the place in New York, don't you
think? One for each side of the nuptial bed!"
Sandro hunched his shoulders.
"Dick! Stop boring him, if it's not three hundred years old, it's
junk," Ula called out from her siren's couch.
The oily blackness of the floor beneath her fiberglass boat
rippled and curled. Lulu brought Penny her coffee. She looked into the
cup. The sheen quivered under her shaky breath, same as the floor. She
took a sip: bitter, strong.
"How old are you, Lulu?" Ula asked him.
"Eightheen."
"My ass. Oh, your ass, your tight little ass. Hey, Loulou, bet her
ass is tighter than yours," Ula taunted.
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