In his youth, he allowed his agile frame to descend the jagged ledge of Mesa Vuono into the cerulean depths of Poseidon’s realm. Submerged beneath the crystal blue sanctum, the burgeoning architect could not envision an indulgence more stellar than the warmth of the Mediterranean sun upon his face, the eternity of black sand beaches surrounding him, and the temperate solace of his Greek aquatic enclosure. His friend, who had not yet been accosted by the furies of love, maintained their post on that onyx sand, enduring the afternoon heat, accompanied on either side by the tanned, long-limbed, supple denizens of the island, renown throughout history for their uncompromising grace and beauty. They addressed the pangs of hunger with smoked bass. And quelled their thirst with Campari.
Similar days would follow. And in his youthful opinion, nothing could compare.
Now, as he lunched on the westside of Manhattan, gazing across at his wife, the Scottish-born culinary savant, Maxwell had arrived at an unequivocal truth:
There was nothing more magical.
More deserving of his meticulous attention,
Than the splendor of her smile.
Implode. Part LXXVI – DK