Reclaiming Paris [antikvár]

Men are like perfumes. In an instant, with nothing but a whiff of judgment, I either love them or discard them. When I love them, I fali blindly in lust with their scent, and for a while I can think of no other. I fancy that our match will last forever, and convince myself that I have discovered the most wonderful man (perfume) in the world. I wear it with gusto (both the man and the perfume). Alas, I have the same problem with men as I do with my perfumes. As time goes by, the potion dwindles and it becomes necessary to find a replacement. It is then my senses awaken to new smells, and sometimes, as I am mourning the end of a beloved fragrance, I am no doubt already yearning for another. I grew up on the island of Cuba smelling of Russian Violets, the signature perfume of pampered babies in the seaside town of Matanzas. It's a strong scent. The overabundance of spring in the formula takes somé getting used to and lingers in your soul well beyond childhood. Its a useful scent. If you want to see a man run, splash your bedroom with violetas rusas. Makes them head for the door, claim for-