Signature

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Tender peach, uplifting aldehydes, an engaging dash of nutmeg and a hint of fresh tangerine enshrine tulip in the opening of signature (S. T. Dupont 2000).  Into the dry down fluid floral beauties are buoyed by sturdy, warm base notes.  And a perfect rosewood is accentuated by musk.

Top notes: aldehydes, tulip, nutmeg, violet, peach, bergamot and tangerine.  Middle notes: magnolia, iris, orchid, jasmine, lily-of-the-valley and rose. Base notes: sandalwood, amber, musk, vanilla, vetiver, cedar and brazilian rosewood.

Nose: Bertrand Duchaufour

Raindrops On My Window: Part III of IV

The morning after my first lovely night with Tom I woke up feeling both totally smitten and very anxious.  Something about the perfection…  Was that it?  I don’t know, but it felt too good – too wonderful really.  Yet, the more anxious I felt and the more scared I was by the beauty of it all, the more I craved him.  And when I was around him, only in moments of total quiet when the shadows crept too close for comfort did I ever feel almost anything but happiness.

The evening of the party at his mother’s cottage on the sea was a moonlit one.  And I was very anxious to make a good impression.  Before the night began I spent hours on my dress and overall appearance.  When I arrived, nervous and happy I immediately felt drawn into the crowd before me when he took my hand.  He held my hand for an hour and never let it go.

“Sarah plays the violin.” his mother modestly mentioned as we all sat around the table after dinner, sipping coffee and wine.

“Oh, how wonderful.”  I smiled as Sarah bashfully looked askew, and I felt myself falling in love not only with the man sitting next to me but his entire family.

“Mother is an accomplished singer.”  Tom said this as if he was trying to pull flattering facts about his mother out of hidden places she convened them to so as to keep an even keel and never seem to be anything but the reserved, gentle soul she presented.

“Oh stop lying.” she laughed.  “I was nothing of the sort.  I only sang occasionally.”  She grinned the same toothy smile Tom possessed and manifested at will brilliantly, and with both of them flashing their grins the entire courtyard was filled with an ephemeral sort of lightness.

I sat in bliss just watching what surrounded me.

A dark, languid young man tapped Sarah on her shoulder and then escorted her onto the portion of the courtyard used for dancing.  There they smoothed into a tender embrace before being moved to the sound the melody coming from the guitar and violin.

Tom’s mother pulled out a cigarette and took a puff, resting her elbows on the table before her.  She suddenly looked distant and almost ready to break into tears, but instead she just kept smoking…

Tom asked, “Would you like to dance, Patricia?”  His eyes were smiling and we rose and began dancing upon his request.

I can’t remember much from that moment on, but I do remember feeling shock because nothing up until that hour in time had ever gone so well, so splendidly, in my life.  And just as soon as I was about to dismiss it all as some sort of dream, or a moment that was about to come shattering down and self-destruct I felt the heaviness of life.  I felt the humid, late Summer air and I felt his soul and I knew it was all very real.  He touched the back of my waist and brushed his cheek against mine.

Tom grasped my hand, and I wasn’t sure that I wasn’t drunk, but I hadn’t had one sip the entire time I was there.   Then he tugged at me and we seemed to float away towards some place that only he could be leading to – that only he knew of.  He seemed to possess the admiration of the sun, moon and stars combined and he wanted me, but that wasn’t what thrilled me most.  It was his touch.  His smell.  It was him.

We walked down a very narrow dirt path, under an elm tree, and then landed next to a lilac bush near an old, vine covered red brick wall.  “On the other side of this wall is a garden filled with roses.  It belongs to our next door neighbors but my mother is good friends with the wife and she wouldn’t mind anyway…  I don’t think.”  He chuckled at the last phrase with giddiness, and seemed to regard everything in this moment as though he was embarking on something all together too grand and too magnificent to be true.  Then, half silly, he said, “Let’s go over!”   Vitality lifted his limbs up and onto the top of the wall and upon reaching the summit he stood and examined it all, even gazing into the distance.  He giggled and his eyes were wide open and shining.  Then, he reached down and extended his hand.  “Here!”

I grabbed his hand and he brought me upwards to meet him.  Our limbs joined and he said sweetly, gently, “Now, I’ll jump down on the other side and when I get there I’ll wait, then you jump and I’ll catch you.”

He hopped off, landed perfectly and then reached his arms outward.  I dropped my legs down first and then thew myself towards him entirely.  I fell into him and he did, in fact, catch me, although we had to steady ourselves backward momentarily, but that was only lovely.  And sure enough, there were roses everywhere.  Dozens of roses…

I looked around and beheld the splendor.  “They aren’t half as pretty as you-”  His voice broke and in that moment of self-acknowledged, awkward, trite poetry he seemed to be expressing more sincere emotion than the most original and talented writers could in a thousand years.

We laid among those late July rose beds on Bushnell Lane…

An hour later, wiping the dirt from the back of my dress in the misty moonlight, and smoothing out his gray tie he told me, “I love you.”

And I said, “I love you.”

And we did

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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