There was opera in the marble.
Prayers whispered in the Pantheon, long ago.
It was Blue Carrara.
Lugged out of the quarry by Maxwell himself.
The water was cold.
She loved the opera.
Like the Alpi Apuane.
Do you remember?
He continued to listen, though it numbed his face.
In the foyer, a noble hand unlatched a storied door.
Maxwell, toting a small stack of letters, closed the portal behind him.
“We have an appointment with Tom Ford, my friend.”
He studied an envelope.
“And we mustn’t be late.”
It was therapeutic.
The icy liquid had interrupted his person and now his face was blue,
In harmony with the sink.
If only he could inhale.
She was his oxygen.
I wonder if she likes the opera, too.
But Hades would not accept him
And Zeus would not let him go.
Maxwell looked up from the parcel.
He surveyed the vacant area, though he was certain there was a guest in his home.
Maxwell stepped hurriedly down the corridor, leading toward the guest quarters. Arrived at the bathroom door, he observed his friend contoured over the master sink, head submerged beneath a pool of water.
He hurried toward the supplicated figure and violently pulled him from the fountain vessel.
Benjamin observed his friend, slightly confused.
“I was washing my face.”
Maxwell, his bespoke garment now saturated, returned his gaze. Slightly bashful.
Implode. Part XVII – DK