What it means to miss New Orleans...

Gaston sat at one of the back tables in the dingy bar, watching the world pass by as he had day in and day out for centuries. The beer bottle before him dripped condensation onto the scratched wood, the breeze wafting through the massive open French doors and the overhead fans doing little to counteract the crushing humidity. He flicked ash from his cigarette, pretending to take a puff. He was never mad at Remy for turning him into a vampire. How could he hold a grudge against his own flesh and blood? What he missed were the little things. The soothing burn of alcohol sliding down his throat. The harsh warmth of tobacco smoke filling his lungs. His body hadn't been able to digest anything but blood in almost too long to remember and the lack of working lungs made smoking difficult. But he could pretend, just enough, to sit undisturbed for hours enjoying the sights, the sounds, the smells. Thinking. Calculating. Waiting.