The Lost Girls Of Paris

But the truth was when it came to grief, each person was an island, alone.

as if that made it somehow easier to bear.

She wished the store was open so she could buy some powder to hide the marks on her neck and sample a bit of perfume to conceal the stench of day-old brandy mixed with that delicious-but-wrong smell of Mark’s aftershave, which made her dizzy and ashamed with every inhale.