The two-thirty post meridian sun poured in through the large French windows behind his desk. The amber light tickled his fountain pen, which shivered in hints of platinum as he wrote.
Maxwell laid the pen on its side. He was Maxwell when signing financial documents, legal correspondence, and bearing the diatribes of an unhappy wife. The latter was a rare occurrence.
He leaned back in the ergonomic titanium chair and swiveled slightly. It was his design: The Mulberry Forseti. An executive chair built to nurture the dreams of a poet whilst supporting the weight of a titan. It was part of a larger seasonal collection of office accoutrements from the Mulberry Design catalog.
Downstairs, a bearded man with smudges of black soot marring his face, sat disheveled on the concrete step of 88 Mercer Street. He stared up weakly at a man, he assumed to be the savior.
Benjamin stared back, assuming the same.
Implode. Part IV – DK