Implode (Balearic Sunsets)

Following a rigorous morning of 18 holes, the remainder of the day would find them at sea, sailing from Valencia to Deià. Maxwell and Etienne had watched their friend birdie the final three holes of the course at El Saler, for a score of six under par. It was an exceptional performance and one that was later celebrated at Can Lluc, with seared sea bass and a 1962 Dom Pérignon. And though the Frenchman was particular in his pursuit of rare tenderloin and a 1982 Château Margaux, no such luxuries were to be found on the island. With the skiff moored at seashore's edge and Maxwell and Benjamin sufficiently imbibed, Etienne found himself alone in his quest for the type of sustenance that would satiate an enlightened carnivore. Defeated, he succumbed to his alternate motto of When in Rome and made an entreaty for the fresh water lobster. It was lightly peppered, salted, and sautéed in a raw cream butter sauce, per his request.

And as they lounged within the outdoor comfort of the Balearic brasserie, surrounded by the clear water cove and ocean jutting cliffs, Maxwell, Benjamin, and Etienne, along with their fellow diners, would revel in the dinner theatre of the setting sun. It was a calming spectacle, the red embers casting a somnolent glow over the medieval town. And though the cosmic spectacle left the gallery of beach goers in awe, Benjamin's attention was accosted by the Spaniard beauty, seated on the beach below.

"Sir?"

 Benjamin blinked, returning to the island of Manhattan, where then sun was preparing to set once more.

"I'm sorry," the taxi driver interrupted. "Which street was it again?"

Benjamin blinked again, attempting to acquaint himself with his current surroundings. However, the redolence of his past and the crimson haze, now spilling over the city, had proved too much to bear.

"Do you remember?" the gruff cabbie continued.

Benjamin sighed.

"That's all I do."

Implode. Part LXXX - DK