Despite the current poverty of his newfound state, he still possessed the currency of his name. The eponym held palatial estates in France, considerable holdings in Spain, and coastal acreage along the Amalfi, conceded by the Italians in the complex business dealings of 1781.
He remembered a summer night when they flew to Paris, unannounced. Absent itinerary and luggage, alongside Maxwell and Claire, he arrived in the city of light upon a chartered Gulfstream, where they reveled irresponsibly on the Champs-Élysées.
You see, they were a trio then.
He remembered the decadence of Man Ray. The overflow of Gran Patrón, Stolichnaya Elit, and intoxicating grapes, coerced into sparkling wines, from the vineyards of kings. He remembered the ambience of the light and its sedative nature. He recollected the pulsating beat and the stifling humidity of the air, which caused her Emanuel Ungaro dress to become synonymous with her person. He remembered the infectious rhythm and the manner in which her pelvis engaged his own. He was privy to the rose lace beneath her ensemble, while his denim was privy to all the tales Victoria held in confidence.
He recalled her breath.
Her jet-black hair.
The way it clung to her body.
Only now, he could not recall her name.
“Tell me about the forest, Benjamin.”
He turned to his debonair friend, bemused.
Implode. Part XXXII – DK