That first fresh burst of Friday at five, or five ‘o’clock any day you need it really. It’s that finally feeling when your soul returns to your skin to fill each limb with a languid invitation to breathe. They call it happy hour. They call it dusk. They call it the end of a long hard day. But there is something starting here too. In the piquant sting of citrus mist that hits the tip of your nose and lips. In the curl and release of your inner cheeks and the long wet rush that follows. This is what they’re sipping on the sidewalk cafés from Via Veneto to the tree-lined boulevards of Bavaria. This is what she pours herself while painting on her favorite face. This is the clink and clatter of ice cubes in two glasses meeting to celebrate. Life.