As much as it would have pleased him to do so, the number of days in the Gregorian calendar were not sufficient to appease the inundation of requests for his audience. And though the affluent patrons were generous in their offers of unadulterated travel, lofty accommodation, and all manner of excess, the rigors of his schedule would not allow for such a diversion from the particular nature of his work. Ms. Olsson, his diligent muse, would maintain a detailed ledger of the various luminaries, dignitaries, and other such individuals of note, accustomed to the urgency inherent in their name, and placed them into an organized queue for archival.
And yes, it was true.
The architect did have appointments today.
Some, with those famous monikers.
Yet, it was this moment, that was his most important.
He observed, quietly amused by her uncharacteristic response to the novelty of the cuisine and the Veuve Clicquot, in particular. It was unrelenting, the bubbles of the champagne tickling the brim of her button nose. She set the crystal flute onto the tablecloth and continued to grin, her cheeks as rosy as the 1998 vintage that now satiated her palate.
“I was contemplating the du Cap.” Maxwell would say.
Claire Mulberry, her famous poise now enraptured by a quiet joy, blushed as she observed her husband, and smiled.
“And the confiture de citron?” She inquired bashfully.
“And the confiture de citron, of course.” Her husband confirmed, with a playful smile of his own.
The au fait chef continued to blush, turning her attention toward the sustenance of her plate. It had been some while since she had possessed the entirety of his attention.
And she was grateful.
“Well,” Claire began, “Summer’s almost here. And like every summer, I look forward to…”
“Perhaps today.” Maxwell would insist.
Claire observed him, without words.
“It’s been some while since I’ve held you…”
His wife continued to observe him, spellbound.
Implode. Part LXXVII – DK