Eau De Murano


Eau De Murano (Murano 1994) is ripe, plump and robust florals with a particularly tender and sexy, almost spicy and salty rose.  This is a fragrance well suited for warm weather, but with cool breezes lifting spirits and inspiring a wistful, lingering sort of beauty.  It’s a very 90’s scent in the best, most elegant sense.  Eau De Murano is reminiscent of Amarige in its sincere, feminine but structured allure.  And although it may not be well known, it is certainly not a scent to be forgotten.

I quite fancy it…

(nose and notes are unknown)

Raindrops On My Window Part I of IV

My silk dress was damp at the armpits.  My skin felt itchy.  I was really itchy.  It was a hot night in July.

Condensation from my glass of sherry dripped onto the lovely mahogany table to my right. I was useless too.  Totally useless.

“Patricia!  Darling, do come here.”

“I can’t.  If I stand up you’ll be able to see the stains on this dress.”

“Oh, silly girl.  I have a huge mustard stain on my lap from dinner.”

“You have a tiny speck.  Under a microscope the size of Manhattan, that is.  Shut yer yap, Diana.”

“Well, you’ll have to make yourself presentable anyway in a minute.”  Diana’s voice trailed off.

“Why?”  It seemed like something terrible was about to happen.   The warmth of the lamps in the drawing room next to the garden door would have been cozy if it wasn’t so very, too very, hot.  And I could hear the sound of the bubbling fountains in the garden even though the crickets were loud.

“Hello.”  And there he stood.  Tall.  Deep, sensual voice.  Cool blue eyes…  And he looked sweaty.  He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Oh, poor baby.” Diana cooed.

With her soft, billowing satin she shimmied over toward him with a tray of ice as he stood in the doorway.  Mrs. Aldridge, the maid, who stood in the doorway as well, now retired presumably to go to bed.  It was actually quite late – ten at night.  I bit my lip and then sat down again in the same spot on the leather sofa.

“I was planning on just going home, but I had a ghastly night and I told myself, ‘Hey idiot. Don’t waste a perfectly horrible Summer night.  Find someone to share your misery.'” This strange, handsome man I didn’t know now looked at Diana and sent her a huge, toothy grin.  She giggled dryly.

“Well, we’ve been just sitting here the whole night I’m afraid.  It’s much too hot for almost anything else.”

Diana draped herself majestically over the chaise in the dimmest corner of the darkly lit, smoky drawing room at Cherry Hill on Crescent Street, near the old museum in the north part of town.  She looked longingly, pursing her red lips and furrowing her carefully arched brows at the gentleman now sitting on the floor near the fireplace.  Yet, her spectacle wasn’t meant to cause any action.  It was all in jest and he knew it.

He smiled wryly and laughed but in a sort of genuine, sweet innocence as he unbuttoned his shirt a few buttons. Then he rolled up his sleeves and took off his shoes.  For a second he and Diana seemed to be in a world unto themselves watching each other.  I sat in silence.

“So who is this young maiden?”  He looked at me suddenly, breaking the mood with a somewhat silly but friendly look my way and I felt very on display.  I’m sure I showed it too.

“This, my friend, is the late Patricia Jane Fulton.  Tonight she will die in your arms from the shock of your electrifying kiss.” Diana threw herself backward demonstratively, almost falling off the chaise. “Oh sweet Jupiter and galloping Hades, I’m drunk.”

“Yes.  Yes, I think so.” said the mystery man in response.

“I want walnuts.” Diana rose now  with a bounce and waltzed to the door, but she bumped into the edge of the marble fireplace with her shoulder and fell slightly to the left before finally reaching the doorway.  “Ahh nuts!” she exclaimed at the injury.  She tossed her thick, beautiful blond waves back, displaying a sharp but pretty visage, and then lifted her locks off her serene, splendid neck with her dainty pale hand.  “And speaking of nuts.” She exited the room with a skip and click of her cunning heels.

“Hi there.”  The mystery man rose and lifted himself onto the sofa next to where I sat tensely but without much emotion on display, as always.

“Hi.” I responded, as I heard the sound of Duke Ellington playing Mood Indigo on the phonograph in the background and felt much too much.

“So you’re Patricia.  I’ve heard about you.”

“You have?!” I was quite confused.

“Oh of course.” He smiled and nodded.

“How could that be?”

“I’ve seen you at parties.”

“No you haven’t.  I’m quiet and I rarely go to parties.”

“Well, that may be, but I did see you at the Kitson’s Winter party last year.”

I paused and tried to recall that event.  It was in February around the time of Mrs. Kitson’s 40th birthday.

“Oh yes.  I was there.”

“Yes.  And you were dancing with a fellow name George Lax.  I knew George from my days at Exeter.”

“Right.  George and I used to play together as children.  He’s a very good friend of mine.  Matter of fact we’re related.  He’s my second cousin on my mother’s side.”

“Yes.  I know.  George told me a lot about you that night when I asked who you were.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You danced well.”

“I’m not a good dancer.”

I thought you were.”

“I was making it all up.”

“But it was good.”

Diana returned and announced her arrival by throwing walnut shells at our heads.  I felt one hit my cheek, looked to my left and saw her approaching.

“I should go home.” I announced awkwardly.

“Ok kiddo.  I’ll call for a taxi, unless you want to walk.” Diana sounded blunt, sugary and quite inebriated.

“No, I’ll drive her home.” The mystery man rose at this phrase and looked seriously at me.  While I was advised once by my nanny not to accept automobile rides from boys I’d never met, I felt at ease.

“Ok.  Sure.  Why not?  Suits me.” Diana said gingerly.

“Fine.” he managed, as his face lit up.









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