Juliette Longuet and Diptyque Paris, Eau Plurielle
She looks at her watch and then back to the street below. She has thrust open the windows to let spring into the house. The air is cool but clean, and she’s waited almost as long for April as she has for him. It feels like the first time all over again. She shudders and pulls the sleeves of her oversized cashmere cardigan down over her wrists. Underneath she is bare, save for scalloped lace panties and dab of perfume behind each knee. She fluffs the pillows and releases the curtains. They billow in the breeze. She wonders if she will recognize his footfall on the pavement below? The wind rustles a bouquet of roses in the windowsill and scatters petals to the floor. Are those footsteps? She can hardly hear past her heartbeat.