The foyer told the tale of hunter-gatherers.
Of chaste monks.
Of Schwe Yin Aye.
Of limestone temples, dedicated to Buddha.
The teak was washed in blackberries and set on a grassy knoll to bask in the Mon kingdom sun. The onyx lumber was intricately carved into various shapes:
The obsidian wood and its sculpted revelry was embalmed in mint and trimmed with gold. As he braced himself on the chocolate doorway, he was reminded of Kyaiktyo Pagoda.
Of Burmese craftsmanship.
Of U Wisara.
And so he removed his shoes upon entering his home, as a small step toward nirvana.
Maxwell set the calf-skin moccasins to the side. They were made-to-measure, courtesy of Tom Ford. And whilst a good portion of the light was consumed by the midnight interior, the shoes appeared to blush, perhaps reminiscing of its youth in Naples.
The mahogany floor was soothing against his feet. As he stepped into the expanse of the loft, the light would reign once more.
Claire Madison Mulberry stood at the kitchen island, chopping Italian parsley and basil. The cutting board was once part of a sugar maple, felled by a bolt of lightening in a New England thunderstorm. Claire was of the opinion that everything contributed to taste.
And so she imported spices.
Became acquainted with grapes.
Consulted with farmers on the bovinian diet, so that the cheese would be appropriate.
Maxwell watched her from afar, leather tote idling in his grasp. The aroma of her creation simmering on the stove filled the SoHo air.
Claire looked up from her work, and smiled.
“It’s good to be home.”
He strolled toward the sofa. The Mulberry Eir.
Claire reached for the basil.
“How was your day?”
Maxwell placed the tote onto the floor and brought his person to rest on the ruby chesterfield. However, something was amiss. The inquiry challenged the materials he so painstakingly chose for the design.
And so he stood up.
And approached the kitchen island, where a bottle of Scotch laid in wait. He removed a short glass from the cupboard.
“I ran into an old friend.”
He began a return to the Eir.
Claire took a moment.
The basil was patient.
She knew that Maxwell was a novice at cultivating personal relationships. She knew that Neil was the closest resemblance of a friend. And though they shared jovial moments over an occasional Scotch, he was a business associate, at best.
His oldest friend was work. A friend older than that?
She took the basil in her grasp.
Maxwell nodded, pouring himself an eighth of Scotch.
“Anyone I know?”
He brought the glass to his lips… and briefly considered a line of tableware.
He consumed the chestnut beverage.
Claire stood frozen.
The aromatic concoction continued to simmer.
Implode. Part VIII – DK