€œIt was a French morning if a poet were ever to script it. A cashmere cardigan rest upon the arm of the neutral-toned ottoman. The sweet wine of the night before laid dormant in a lipstick-stained glass. The kettle whistled above the open flame, waiting impatiently to be poured into the crevices of the sliced lemon that accommodated the fresh china. A musk lingered from the night before, offering a memory worth storing for the next rain-filled day.€�