It was the color of love.
A Santa Monica sunset.
The lush panorama of Lucy’s mouth.
It was a play at 252 West 45th Street. Claire Mulberry sat center orchestra, her debonair husband by her side, and beheld the stage. An obsidian tale of Givenchy fallen o’er her porcelain frame, the immaculate profile gravitated forward, liquescent ruby stones attuned to her ear.
Though the operatic dramaturgy of Rothko proved enthralling, Maxwell could not deter his gaze from his wife. Her hair was pulled back, the sable fibers stretched into ascension, exposing her pallid neck. Along the song of her collarbone strode 181 briolette, round brilliant, and pear-shaped diamonds, composed in calm by Harry Winston. A purveyor of opulence, a cynosure of gems, and the only other man allowed access to her body.
His gaze fell toward his hands. The ivory hint of his Charvet cuffs peered curiously over the bespoke sleeve of his Henry Poole dinner coat. He observed the leather strap of his Franck Muller timepiece and its platinum clasp, which found itself drawn toward the Bvlgari cufflinks administering the sleeved union.
Maxwell gazed up, though not at the stage, but at the performance of his wife. He observed, as she found herself ensconced in the complexity of a man’s work, similarly marveled at the complexity of the self.
He reached out, until her slender, placid palm met his own.
She turned to him for the first time, and smiled, before returning her attention toward the stage.
Maxwell sighed a content breath, securing the hand merged in his grasp. He then joined her gaze in the theatre of abstraction.
Implode. Part XLVIII – DK