He loved the rain.
Particularly in SoHo.
It reminded him of Florence.
Of love without compromise.
He wanted to discuss admiration.
He wanted see his wife.
Through the mist, the tangerine light spilt onto Mercer. The windows were large, luminescent, and bordered by a soil rich lumber, harvested in Eastern Himalaya. The sable cusp of the luxuriant wood was christened with mandarin garnet. The orange crystal was married to the lucid slate by Venetian glassmakers, unpretentious in their skill. Contemporary lights shone from the chocolate rafters, their dimmed magnificence calming over the intimate interior. Maxwell stood outside the glass, aware of his person. The bespoke coat, the patterned shirt and Windsor collar, adorned by a blushing necktie repeated back to him in the reflection. As the rain continued to pelt the cobblestoned street, Maxwell remained unmoved, awash in the bask of apricot gems.
Claire stood in the midst of Madison, illuminated by a somber spotlight. She removed wine contents from a bamboo parcel and prepared to place the Dionysian liquids onto espresso shelves.
And then she saw Maxwell.
He moved toward the door, decidedly coming in from the rain.
He entered and she did not move.
And still, she was still.
“It’s all so magnificent.”
She gazed at him for a moment longer, before proceeding with her tasks.
Maxwell observed his hands. And then the imported floor.
“Ms. Olsson is preparing to courier invitations. She was uncertain whether the current list is finite.”
Claire set antiquated wine bottles atop russet shelves.
“I could have called your office. My apologies for your endeavor.”
Maxwell was perplexed by her disconnected response.
“Your love is my constant endeavor.”
She pretended not to hear.
“It’s a short walk from the office. I wanted to see you.”
He waited, while she tended to the office of a restaurateur.
“Where have you been, Maxwell?”
He thought momentarily.
She stared at him.
So he continued, “And spending time with Benjamin.”
She gazed for a moment longer.
She then nodded and returned to her work.
He knew that she was unhappy, though he did not understand.
“He’s better, Claire.”
She removed the empty carton from the table. Maxwell beseeched her.
“He’s getting better.”
Though she did not wish to hurt him, she did not wish to acquiesce.
“He’s got some new suits and…”
She appeared disinterested. He stumbled to regain his audience.
“He’s been going out on his own.”
“He may even manage a new fund.”
“I mean, it truly is too soon to speak on the subject intelligibly, however…”
He paused and beheld his wife.
“You can’t help him. He needs a professional.”
They both stood,
Facing each other,
Kindled by opalescent light.
Maxwell considered her words.
“I am a professional.”
Implode. Part XXIV – DK