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| Invite Sander Cohen into your home today. [closed]; -- Cohen's apartment | |
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| Topic Started: Apr 6 2008, 11:43 PM (206 Views) | |
| . Sander Cohen | Apr 6 2008, 11:43 PM Post #1 |
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(Closed to Sander Cohen and Maximilian Falkenstein) Sander Cohen lived in one of the largest, most luxurious, and most exclusive apartments in all of rapture-- on the slopes of Olympus, so to speak. The elegance and beauty of the Mercury Suites homes were enough to fill even the most jaded social climber with envy as green as the louched Absinthe which Cohen now served his pretty guest, seated more-or-less uncomfortably upon a plush red loveseat across from the performer. A black and white cat butted its head insistently against the guest's knee, greedy for petting. "Have you ever tasted absinthe before?" Cohen inquired, setting aside the slotted spoons with their coating of dissolved sugar. The cat looked away from Max's hand for a moment, almost as curious about the sugar as about the visitor. |
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| . Max Falkenstein | Apr 6 2008, 11:51 PM Post #2 |
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Max looked around the apartment with obvious jealousy tinted with something else. Was it regret? Nostalgia? It reminded him of his old home in Berlin, his garage with it's shiny black car. He looked at Cohen. Could he be the first step on a ladder to reclaiming a bit of that? Then he looked at the Absinthe. He had heard of the stuff, of course, but it belonged to the realm of dirty Bohemian artists who dwelled in studio apartments with decaying furniture and empty bottles scattered around a desk purchased solely to support an ancient typewriter. The idea of tasting it himself was repulsive but he could feel the increasing necessity in the air. Cohen was not the sort of man one sat across from and said no to. He knew, he had been like that once. He gave the cat a reassuring scratch behind the ears. "I can't say that I have. No." |
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| . Sander Cohen | Apr 6 2008, 11:56 PM Post #3 |
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"It is the favoured nectar of the creative mind. Go on, take a sip." Cohen urged him with an expressive wave of his hand, "Drink, and let us discuss loftier things. Do you perhaps sing... ah, you never told me your name, you naughty boy. Don't think I have forgotten." Cohen drifted over to his piano and played a measure of something terribly melancholy, and sweet. On either side of the piano, half-formed sculptures loomed in chalky white, gods emerging from formless clay. |
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| . Max Falkenstein | Apr 7 2008, 01:46 PM Post #4 |
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"I see." Max took a very small sip as he watched Cohen play and tried very hard not to choke to death. This proved difficult. Cohen really was very good, his long fingers dancing lightly over the keys. He had not expected Sander Cohen, but, no one expected Sander Cohen unless they tuned in to Rapture Radio every night at eight o'clock. |
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| . Sander Cohen | Apr 8 2008, 02:40 PM Post #5 |
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Cohen drank his absinthe with ease of practice. He was not a desperately attractive man-- short, clearly of jewish descent, even without the name-- but his voice, that was something all by itself. And oddly, far more compelling when it couldn't be convieniently switched off. "So you see, do you? I am beginning to think that you do not want to tell me who you are, cherub. Why is that, I wonder?" |
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| . Max Falkenstein | Apr 8 2008, 03:16 PM Post #6 |
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"Why do you think it might be, Mr. Cohen." Max reminded himself to drink this stuff very slowly. Nothing good would come of this little encounter otherwise and there was the distinct potential for embarrassment. Embarrassment was something Max did his best to avoid at all costs. |
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| . Sander Cohen | Apr 12 2008, 01:37 PM Post #7 |
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"i make it a point to never speculate on the motives of any persons... except, perhaps, those I create." Cohen smiled at the piano keys, "That way damnation lies." |
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4:22 PM Nov 28
