On the southern tip of the island, Maxwell and Claire Mulberry endured in their work. It was the first time, in some while, that they had shared a space alone. Claire gazed up from her Macbook Pro and observed her husband, through the subtleness of Gucci frames, and smiled. It was a nondescript indulgence, though it delighted her nonetheless, that her husband was seated across from her, in the same room.
“There was an engaging article on Mr. Chernov in Vanity Fair.”
Maxwell paused, to gaze up at his wife.
“Interesting fellow.” She continued.
He continued in his work.
Claire smiled, though her heart was filled with melancholy.
“How long, Max?”
Maxwell stopped, to look up at his wife.
“I’m not certain, dear. Though I’ve started on some sketches for the gentleman’s residence on 68th and…”
“No, Max. I mean…”
It required several moments, though he eventually coalesced with her thoughts. He siphoned a considerable amount of air into his lungs, before exhaling deeply. The hints of Tahitian vanilla tickled his nose, yet before he could reply, Claire offered a multitude of theories for her inquisition.
“The restaurant requires a significant effort. You’re well aware.”
“The preparation, the travel involved, the particular nature of the endeavor…”
“I miss you. I miss us…”
There was difficulty in the words.
“You’ve done more, than anyone else would have thought to do. For a friend.”
He sat still, absorbing her efforts.
“You’re a good man.”
Another sigh. He beheld his wife.
“The situation, as it stands Maxwell, has tested my fortitude.”
The artisan fancier surveyed the expanse of the room, kindled by the two o’clock sun, submerged in the leather vis-à-vis of his making. He tightened his mouth, imbibed with the sincerity of his wife’s emotions.
After some while, he nodded in comprehension and spoke.
“Do you love me?”
The question puzzled her.
“Very much so.”
Maxwell consumed his wife in a glare that enflamed her.
“Love him also.”
Implode. Part XLIII – DK