12-17-2013, 07:41 AM
Nicholas' rejection of the cigar smoldered deep and far away, but sinister and portent. He could hardly turn away from it. A child who knew the oven was off-limits, but wanted to press their fingers to the flame anyway.
The moment wasn't spoiled, however. Nicholas downed the very drink Dane had suggested he finish, and Dane smiled at his joke while the bartender - Anatoly - supplied more. Whiskey, Dane recognized the label, if not the aroma, and cringed at how he imagined it to burn the inside of Nicholas throat. A slow, sinister burn, less dramatic than the boil of acid, but more effective. As tolerant as Nicholas apparently was, his liver must be the consistency of warm porridge. He should really take care of his health. Then again, 'tis healthy to be sick sometimes.
Dane brought his own glass to his lips and savored the deep aroma pooled within. The port was heavy and a touch shy of being too sweet, but balanced with the savory bite of the cigar. Together, the flavors enhanced what either could accomplish on their own. Like many things in this world, they were meant to be appreciated together.
"I envy you, Nicholas."
He placed the glass aside in exchange for tapping away the growing fur of gray ashes. "I have not had the fortune to see any of the world within the Fifth Dominance, but the only value therein are the fossilized antiquities."
He waved a hand, "Nobody goes to Cairo for the bustling nightlife and infamous cuisine."
He fixed Nicholas with a look, seeking agreement. "Patina is far more interesting than bronze alone."
It added complexity and depth, and through the application of chemicals, acid, and caustic layers, was often manipulated to enhance an otherwise boring landscape. Yet blinded by beauty, men were unaware of their own morbidity, but there was a fascinating design bought by erosion, probably much like Nicholas' ever-thinning esophagus.
"Fortunately, fossils will outlast us all. I'm in no hurry to walk the Fertile Crescent any time soon. Have you ever been to the British Isles?"
The anticipation in his question sought a sincere answer, and the lordly accent suggested Nicholas should say yes. "Although I suggest waiting until the Tower Bridge of London is rebuilt. It is like visiting Paris while the Eiffel Tower is a pile of sticks."
His smile lingered, oscillating between a cruel joke and a proud father. It's simply not the same.
Dane was in the midst of puffing and rotating the gentleman's treat, simply tasting the smoke in his mouth and exhaling it, never inhaling beyond the tongue, when the Ritz concierge approached. He was about their age, but small of stature with a bowl of yellow-red hair and a thin beard. Dane couldn't recall his name, but the tag on his shirt supplied it.
The concierge apologized for interrupting. "Sir, I have the tickets you requested."
And he presented two strips of heavy-weight paper, printed with the logo of the Moscow Ballet, and the golden, scrawling script of The Nutcracker across the top.
Dane smiled broadly and eagerly took up the tickets for inspection. First row, within a grand tier box not squarely before the stage, but neither at too sharp an angle. Dane rather enjoyed the prospect of seeing who was seated within the isolated confines of the Tsar's Lounge, the great viewing box on the same level reserved for modern-day royalty.
"This will do."
He thanked the concierge, Sergen, and turned to Nicholas, scintillating with delight. He held out one of the tickets. "Would you be interested in a Christmas Eve viewing of The Nutcracker at the Boloshi Theater, Nicholas?"
<small>((Really? Took me a grueling 30 minutes.))</small>
Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 17 2013, 01:09 PM.
The moment wasn't spoiled, however. Nicholas downed the very drink Dane had suggested he finish, and Dane smiled at his joke while the bartender - Anatoly - supplied more. Whiskey, Dane recognized the label, if not the aroma, and cringed at how he imagined it to burn the inside of Nicholas throat. A slow, sinister burn, less dramatic than the boil of acid, but more effective. As tolerant as Nicholas apparently was, his liver must be the consistency of warm porridge. He should really take care of his health. Then again, 'tis healthy to be sick sometimes.
Dane brought his own glass to his lips and savored the deep aroma pooled within. The port was heavy and a touch shy of being too sweet, but balanced with the savory bite of the cigar. Together, the flavors enhanced what either could accomplish on their own. Like many things in this world, they were meant to be appreciated together.
"I envy you, Nicholas."
He placed the glass aside in exchange for tapping away the growing fur of gray ashes. "I have not had the fortune to see any of the world within the Fifth Dominance, but the only value therein are the fossilized antiquities."
He waved a hand, "Nobody goes to Cairo for the bustling nightlife and infamous cuisine."
He fixed Nicholas with a look, seeking agreement. "Patina is far more interesting than bronze alone."
It added complexity and depth, and through the application of chemicals, acid, and caustic layers, was often manipulated to enhance an otherwise boring landscape. Yet blinded by beauty, men were unaware of their own morbidity, but there was a fascinating design bought by erosion, probably much like Nicholas' ever-thinning esophagus.
"Fortunately, fossils will outlast us all. I'm in no hurry to walk the Fertile Crescent any time soon. Have you ever been to the British Isles?"
The anticipation in his question sought a sincere answer, and the lordly accent suggested Nicholas should say yes. "Although I suggest waiting until the Tower Bridge of London is rebuilt. It is like visiting Paris while the Eiffel Tower is a pile of sticks."
His smile lingered, oscillating between a cruel joke and a proud father. It's simply not the same.
Dane was in the midst of puffing and rotating the gentleman's treat, simply tasting the smoke in his mouth and exhaling it, never inhaling beyond the tongue, when the Ritz concierge approached. He was about their age, but small of stature with a bowl of yellow-red hair and a thin beard. Dane couldn't recall his name, but the tag on his shirt supplied it.
The concierge apologized for interrupting. "Sir, I have the tickets you requested."
And he presented two strips of heavy-weight paper, printed with the logo of the Moscow Ballet, and the golden, scrawling script of The Nutcracker across the top.
Dane smiled broadly and eagerly took up the tickets for inspection. First row, within a grand tier box not squarely before the stage, but neither at too sharp an angle. Dane rather enjoyed the prospect of seeing who was seated within the isolated confines of the Tsar's Lounge, the great viewing box on the same level reserved for modern-day royalty.
"This will do."
He thanked the concierge, Sergen, and turned to Nicholas, scintillating with delight. He held out one of the tickets. "Would you be interested in a Christmas Eve viewing of The Nutcracker at the Boloshi Theater, Nicholas?"
<small>((Really? Took me a grueling 30 minutes.))</small>
Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 17 2013, 01:09 PM.