Allow me to set the scene
Our story begins at 2:27 a.m. on a rainy night in Paris
Cue the thunder
Autumn leaves blanket the concrete, the sky is dark
A woman in her late twenties walks from a bar to her hotel
She has no umbrella, she is seven Negronis deep and she nurses a hole she is desperately trying to fill
Her eyebrows were plucked, she wore fake eyelashes and a red dress
Yet no one at the bar would notice her efforts
Though disappointed, she is no stranger to rejection
She has weathered many storms, that she herself has become the girl under the grey cloud
As she was walking alone in the rain, chin to her chest, arms wrapped around her waist, a perfect storm was brewing
This night in November would prove to be the catalyst, a culmination, the perfect recipe
For the girl under the grey cloud must finally make way for the rain
Ingredients as follows
Her loneliness, the vermouth, the scratching of the zip on the left hem of her dress
The echo of a belittling assessment she'd received from a man earlier that day
And a voice note from her grandma that would say
Call me, please, we need to pray
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