Last mornings with Abby are made of this - a cracked window letting in a crisp breeze, listening to the fire, pressing snooze on the alarm clock, spraying Diptyque Philosykos and Tom Ford Black Orchid, unmade beds, early morning walks, and eating dippy eggs and flaky croissants at the bar at Balthazar, legs swung over high chairs and watching New York City slowly, yet ever so surely, wake up.
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