Inspired by a heavenly ephemeral moment at a leather armchair bar in Paris, not to be rushed or wasted, an icy Martini in one hand, an index ring of little bling, one leg crossed over the other, a Clean Dirty in a space small enough to smell a floral woodsy musk on the ingénue at the next table, wrinkling her nose as she giggles, a curl of imaginary smoke rising above her, floating in a sea of low-fi beauty and Mushkilla’s medicinal French Jazz, Clooney in a glass. Let’s get out of these wet clothes and into a dry Martini.
*opaque dark olive green
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