A Silent Concession

I glided further into the tranquil lounge, where a carved stone bust of an ancient Roman centurion stood keeping stern vigil atop the low rosewood console. His chiseled brow was furrowed in perpetual discipline, holding an ornate brass scroll weight pinned tight against his stone chest. Naturally, such unbending stoicism practically pleaded for my touch. Balancing my goblet of crimson vintage steadily in my left palm, I stepped close enough to trail my right gloved fingers along his cool marble jawline, purring a wicked whisper against his stone ear. A languid, calculated nudge of my heel tapped the brass cylinder, rolling it free into an obedient, quiet rest against my boots.