RIDERS

A tryst in the stables.

Horses. Leather warmed at a canter, verdant green in the air. You work up a sweat as you press the stallion harder, breathing in unison. Then the reward of a sun-ripened peach, hoofs crunching the sea of wild lily of the valley beneath the tree. Never far from an illicit tryst in the stables on a bed of hay.

Courage is not being unafraid of being thrown. It’s getting straight back in the saddle when you are.

Riders was called Bascule; same exact perfume.