An amber tide of sunlight washed through the magnitude of the SoHo loft, though it was the irresistible aroma, synonymous with her culinary skill, that beguiled the senses and seduced the air. The sizzling of farm fresh eggs, enraptured by Vacherin Mont d’Or and cracked black pepper, was locked in a furious embrace with the atmosphere. While her husband sat at the Veizla, the angular dining table of titanium and glass from the Mulberry Asgard Collection, Claire Mulberry christened the gourmet ova with green shards of sweet basil and a mite of lemon juice. She then placed the superlative omelette onto an ivory plate, handcrafted with painstaking Venetian care.
Maxwell was engaged in the Sunday edition of The New York Times. The Hawaiian coffee beans, born of a nurturing sun, the Pacific gale, and volcanic ash, were coerced into culinary submission, metamorphosed into the smoldering hazel embers of his cup. The caffeinated soil was kissed by amaretto and whisked with vanilla crème.
Claire presented the omelette to her husband.
He glanced up from the news periodical, and smiled. Claire was similarly amused by their ritualistic Sunday banter. Maxwell observed his wife’s delectable creation with pride, as a linen napkin came to rest upon his lap.
And then, without notice, the Burmese door had been unlatched in the foyer.
Claire’s smile began to fade, as she turned to her husband, remiss of joy,
Implode. Part LIII – DK