For a perfume so cheap, its stench lingers long past its curfew, clinging to fleeting moments and disheveled Egyptian cotton. A tangle of lace enticing its prey through poisonous whispers, a maturing sack silhouette jacket with tousled notch lapels slung over the crest of a rosewood chair, an atmosphere of impetuous anarchy, and now, a splash of the night’s Cabernet Sauvignon on the ivory cashmere. In the caliginous light, this residue fades into the sultry ambiance. But in the morning, although the cotton will be laundered, the lapels aligned and framing a neck, the crimson stain will always stand as an odium of guilt.