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Le Labo, Iris 39
She crosses Park Avenue against the light. Punctuality, her signature. Running late was a thing of the past. The warm wind of the East River ruffles the Hermes scarf tied so precisely around her neck and frees a few wisps of hair from her meticulous chignon. She imagines him disapprovingly staring at his watch and the rhythmic tap tap tap tap of his pen on the table, but she smiles anyway. She remembers even if he doesn’t. She remembers the wet earth pressed against her back, the blades of grass tickling her inner thighs and the candied taste of his tongue, as it parted her lips. The piercing horn of an approaching taxi jolts her back to now and the scenery of her new life, so far away from that summer in Aix-en-Provence. But she has her memories and they travel forever with her, locked in a place uniquely hers, as she walks on 78th Street.