Or “I can still taste that exquisite bordeaux consumed by
the French ambassador at that reception in London,”
Elliot would regale them.
Or “Those two little blonde skaters in Norway,” Julian
would muse.
They remembered every detail of every kill. Their detailed
memories became almost like monuments to those they
had devoured, though they would never have considered
such a thought. For them it was simply the joy that their
activities brought to them both initially and in the retelling.
After yet another early evening spent sharing memories,
Julian stood and, pushing his chair back from the table
announced, “Well, I’m ready. What about you two?”
“Yes,” they both answered, standing to join him.
“Whose turn is it to choose tonight?” asked Elliot.
“I believe it’s Nathan’s turn.” answered Julian.
“Well, what’s it to be then,” continued Elliot, “some over-
perfumed-to-hide-the-smell-of-sweat street whore or an
aristocratic patron of the arts all powdered and prissy?”
He couldn’t help chuckling.
“I saw a very interesting announcement in today’s
newspaper,” replied Nathan with a smile. “Dress for the
opera.”
Three dozen long-stemmed yellow roses along with a very
fine bottle of champagne had secured the three an
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