Marlowe's Massacre | ;

CHAPTER 24

[.23.4.16.]

~~~

Maxwell, unlike Marlowe, had a peculiar way of talking.

His voice was not soothing in a southern way but the motions of his tongue, teeth and throat moved together to create harmony—every word Max spoke about his home somehow stored itself in Teddy's mind without warning. He had a way with words and his tour of the mansion had lasted seventeen minutes until he arrived in his slot of the hall. By then, Teddy realized they were on the third floor, too far to clearly hear the chatter down below. "... and that leaves us, here, my room."

He opened his door and Teddy took the time to step in and view what type of person Maxwell was. A smirk followed by a shudder of laughter erupted from her mouth, Max's room was a den of books. "Jesus, Max, seriously you have a problem!" She corked.

"Problem?"

"I thought the loft was bad, but your room here is on another level, why are there so many books? Did you really read all of them or are you using them for aesthetics?" She humored.

Shutting his door, he retreated beside Teddy. "I've read them all. Though I should admit, my collection has always been a large one."

"A large one you say! You can hardly move in here. It's just books and a bed, well," Teddy retracted her statement because Max's room was on the wider scale. "actually, it's more like books, books, books, a bed and a desk—which by the way isn't even a bed, it's a futon!" She laughed. "Priorities, huh."

"What can I say, Theodora. I have a thing for books."

"You'd probably marry a book, if you could." And Max doesn't necessarily say no, in fact the larger part of his thoughts wondered what book he'd marry if he could. Philosophical Devices by David Papineau came to mind.

"You aren't actually thinking about it?"

"Of course not."

"Good." She hummed, scanning her eyes over the room once more. His room, if you could call it that, had been half used on one side. He lived more at his desk than his bed, the stacks of research papers, dictionaries and astronomy magazines told Teddy that much. Truly it was a colossal of books—Teddy counted six and half stacks, a small pile by his nightstand, two singular cases drilled to the wall and five books on his desk—a telescope planted by the windowsill, a jade plant propped on it, a piano and then his bed, the futon which he converted into a place to sleep on his days off from his desk.

"Are you having fun breaking me apart?"

"Yea, you're a real nerd, for sure. I'm just processing this library of a room!" She teased. "Do you have a favorite book?" She asked picking up anything her hands touched.

This fascinated Max, watching her go through his room nit-picking at his clutter. "Not sure. Do you have a favorite book?" He replied back as she held one of his rather expensive pens. It was a Vittorio Martini Sinuousa that cost nearly half a grand—if Teddy had asked to have it, he'd give it to her with no thought. If she were to write with it, he'd surely have the burning thought to frame the paper after.

"As a child, I liked Goodnight Moon."

"That's cute."