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Paris is best done in Pairs

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A single white pearl dislodged itself from the deep black velvet and ricocheted to the floor. Whatever clatter this sphere could have made was drowned out by the boisterous jazz and slick, sweet, wine drunk conversations of the chandelier lit dance hall. The tension of seduction hung heavy in the air as the voice of Edith Piaf held a particularly sultry note from the gramophone. Every well to do Parisian woman was in attendance, each with a mesmerizing laugh and elbow length evening gloves.
In the center of the hall, leaning with one elbow on the piano, was Lenora Poiton; the well-off widow of one of the highest ranked navy admirals in all of France. Her svelte figure was fit for a woman half her age, her bobbed black hair was accented with the finest peacock feather, and her lips were full and stained the color of fine wine. While her playful hand rolled the stem of a glass between her first two fingers she tilted her head back and laughed; men in the room swore stars escaped her throat.
As she lifted the glass to her lips only her lined green eyes were visible above the rim. She gave a wink to the waiter bussing drinks around the room and wrapped her arm around him for a dance. Her joints didn’t move the way they used to and as the swept herself across the floor there was a falter in her step. When she looked up at this waiter, as they were chest to chest, he saw the wrinkles in her brow, filled with powder so as to conceal their existence, and there were crow’s feet below the corners of her lashes. One strange feature was missing; the deep grooves worn at the corners of the mouth of a person who had spent their lives smiling were smooth and flat. Even in lieu of this Her smile looked genuine, but fueled by drink, not happiness.




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