Her profile was magic.
As though Donatello arose from slumber,
And cast her from bronze.
She sat stoically, facing Columbus Circle.
Her Givenchy accouterment,
Nearly touching the floor.
The silhouette was fitting
Of a coin from antiquity,
Though it was unequivocally Claire,
Lost in thought,
At the Mandarin Oriental.
She turned to her friend.
Claire did not relate.
“The guy staying with you.”
Her focus was elsewhere.
She consulted the rouge cosmopolitan.
“How long is he staying?”
She set the cocktail down and turned toward the night.
“If only I knew.”
Lucy perused a dessert menu, though it was casual reading.
“It’s such a nice gesture by Max.”
Claire gazed at her friend, confused.
Lucy continued, still feigning interest in the menu.
“Neil would never do such a thing.”
And then Claire considered her words.
It was noble of her husband.
“They’ve been friends since grade school.”
She set down the menu.
“Inseparable. All the way through high school. When Max went to Oxford, Benjamin sort of drifted.”
A server arrived to grant their whims, though Claire gave him leave to go.
“He sort of wandered from one school to the next. Finally, he finished a program at Wharton and went to work for his father.”
Lucy did not follow.
“Ben is Marston Grey’s son.”
Lucy’s porcelin jaw lay agape with the weight of its beauty.
Implode. Part XXIII – DK