Paris Christ on the cross and a mouthful of perfume, it’s dribbling out of his mouth but the Romans said “it better stay in there” and it’s Yves Saint Laurent so they want some for their party later. Titus is dressed up like a sumo wrestler, it’s his bachelor party and he’s wandering around with his friends with a big inflatable sumo costume on, the kind powered with a battery fan. Christ on the cross holds the Yves Saint Laurent liquid calmly in his mouth. Titus is walking up the hill in a gang of men all hooting. Marriage, he thinks, what am I doing I’m only 23 years old and I have all these urges, I wanna fuck all these people I see and I’m not sure I’m even in love and but the thoughts are drowned out by the fan keeping the sumo costume inflated and the peer pressure and the sun. Love, thinks a mouthful of Christ on the Cross with tired eyes that focus on Titus in over-sunned saturation. There is a field out beyond Christ on the cross where his bachelor party friends set up a tent, they are going there to drink and fuck and be romans and citizens and humans. Titus is skeptical, but this is how it’s done, lowest common denominator of interest and he’s never known how to bring his friends together except in these tent parties and there’s no real outside anyway. Titus is passing under Christ on the Cross when he hears the splatter on his fanned up sumo suit and smells a something inspired by the city of love, “Paris” he thinks. It is a tribute to romance. The fragrance starts off with aromas of violet and bergamot with a million roses of different kinds at its heart on a base of woody notes. He knows Sophia Grojsman is the nose behind this enticing fragrance. Titus knows everything is going to be okay.