Annick Goutal, Rose Pompon
He loves me. He loves me not. Fifty-fifty is her fate for each of the hundred petals of the pale pink rosa centifolia. She’s chosen this one because she knows that part of the fun is the wondering. She’s fastened another one in her hair and lined her lips in something luscious. The boys at the bar know downstairs something’s up. She’s skipped three café au laits in a row, and has been doubling up on the aperitifs at night. Champagne rosé s‘il vous plaît? She sips fast and leaves a pomegranate pucker on the rim of her flute. One wink, two bisous and she’s out the door like a butterfly leaving behind a cloud of peppery pink and a couple more hopeful hearts.