They were both artists.
Both gifted, at the manipulation of a thing.
Of transforming the modest into magnificence.
But he was better.
“Claire, you remember Ben.”
As evidenced in her inability to protest, for there he was. She turned toward the wooly-haired gentleman, whose boots had sullied her immaculate floor.
She did not know what to say. She was not skilled at idle chatter. She was not thrilled.
Maxwell looked at his wife, her face glowing pink, en route to rouge.
“Ben’s going to be staying with us for awhile, dear.”
She was angry. In their three years of friendship, four years of dating, and one year of marriage, he had never made a decision so impetuously.
It was the first time, in her recollection, that he had not considered her.
Implode. Part X – DK