Hermes, Eau de Rhubarbe Écarlate
She grabs a cardigan just in case. But she won’t need it as long as she stays on the brighter stripe of the sidewalk. It stays light longer now, and despite the shudder that comes from that first flutter of silk on skin, like the crowd of valiant little leaf buds, she fears no frost. Like children who rush to plunge into icy Atlantic waters and scramble along the shore until their lips turn blue. To them, shivering is not suffering. It is merely an accompaniment to the pleasure of bearing their skin in the softest sunlight. Her cheeks flush scarlet red and she too will blame the sun.