Fairytale of Saint-Denis

For a moment I forget about the walls and the voids between us, alone in a Tuesday frenzy looking for material things to please him with. Paris looks more beautiful than it did when we first came here at the end of the summer - maybe it's the sparkling lights and the generic Christmas music. I'm a child playing too close to the open fire, heartbeats like butterfly wings under silvery skies.

I know I'm buying him too many gifts and I imagine him wearing them when it's just the two of us on Christmas eve: navy shirts from Givenchy and Cavalli, Galliano boxers and more of his Bleu de Chanel - EdP. Maybe he's out doing the same thing for me, picturing me with delicate fabrics and without.

Outside in the swarming crowds, my Russian blood pumping like oil money and I'm slowly getting warmer. It's been cold for too long now and I wish this year had never happened.