It had begun to drizzle again.
He recalled an occasion on his route to Sri Lanka, from the frigid apex of Lhasa, when he found accommodation beneath the shade of a Jackfruit tree. He would take occasional moments of refuge beneath their generous crowns, which shielded him from the tropical heat and the afternoon downpours that took place without warning. He recalled how the raindrops pelted the oversized leaves, gliding in round globules from their waxed surface, down to his place on the forest floor, where the accumulating droplets mudded the earth.
He continued to listen now, as the raindrops pelted the Swedish glass, which was hand-blown and spun in Småland, by the tradition that is Kosta Glasbruk. There was a musicality to the droplets as they encountered the molten crystal, which was now a solid barrier between nearly three hundred years of private banking and the aqueous corridors of SoHo.
Though he occasionally turned his attention toward the peated aroma of the Ardbeg, idling patiently upon the onyx counter top, he was still attuned toward the aquatic symphony occurring upon the Mulberry window pane. As he identified each note in its sonic splendor, he began to wonder whether the melodic occurrence was intended. For its resonance was ardent and purposeful, as though his friend had cut the slates of glass himself.
Benjamin absorbed the vanilla scented air into his lungs. He exhaled in a weighted sigh and turned his attention toward the scotch once more. Though his Tom Ford ensemble: the noir Wetherby jacket, the matching tailored pant, the white evening shirt, and black silk tie, were attentive upon his person and seemingly ready to depart, the de Gris Laurent heir maintained his posture at the kitchen island, his refelection repeated back to him in the licorice marble. He peered deeply into the chestnut beverage, as though it were an oracle of Islay. Still, there were no answers were to be found.
And then it was decided.
He would begin with the egg caviar, accompanied by the young garlic soup, before moving on to the roasted loin of lamb. He was certain that if he could focus upon the particulars of the evening and not the lush panorama…
The supple parting,
The moistened softness
The red allure
Of Lucy’s mouth,
He raised the glass of scotch to his lips, consuming the beverage.
He then turned his attention toward the Burmese door.
Implode. Part LXXXIV – DK