Seduction of the Mind

Lunch at Noon

The café smelled of coffee and wet pavement. Noon sunlight pressed weakly through the windows, catching on silverware. Ethan slid into the booth across from John, who already had his jacket off and a grin ready.

“You look like you fought a filing cabinet,” John said.

“You should see the cabinet,” Ethan replied, signaling the server.

They ordered quickly—John a club, Ethan grilled salmon, two coffees. For a few beats they just listened to the rain tapping glass.

“How are the girls?” John asked.

“Sixteen,” Ethan said, which was answer enough.

John laughed. “Still bleeding you dry?”

“They don’t talk unless it starts with ‘Dad, can I have…’” Ethan stirred his coffee. “Last night, they wanted clothes and makeup. I suggested jobs.”

“And you lived to tell it?” John shook his head. “Let them work. Barista, dog walker—character building.”

“They said character is my hobby, not theirs.” Ethan almost smiled.

“They’re not wrong.” John smirked. “Teenagers filter out wisdom. It’s biological.”

Ethan nodded, but his mind was somewhere else—on the quiet house, the cold dinners, Helen’s red mouth saying, Don’t wait up.

The door chimed. A man walked in like the room belonged to him. Tall, polished, suit molded by money. Denis Floyd. The name rolled through Ethan’s head before his smile caught up.

“Ethan Hale,” Denis said brightly. “And John! Haven’t seen you since… what, the gala?”

“Fundraiser,” John corrected, standing for a quick handshake. “Join us.”

Denis didn’t wait for yes. He slid in, phone facedown on the table. His cologne carried something else with it—a thin ribbon of perfume Ethan knew too well. Helen’s winter indulgence: citrus and amber over warm wood.

“You two look official,” Denis said. “I should’ve worn a tie.”

“You’re already overdressed for this joint,” John said, grinning.

The server returned. Denis ordered a martini for lunch like it was an art form. When she left, he leaned in, conspiratorial.

“Divorce papers dry,” he announced. “Freedom with a view.”

“Congrats?” John said. “You sound thrilled.”

“Freedom always costs something,” Denis said easily. His cuff shifted, and Ethan saw it: a faint smudge at the collar. Lipstick. Not generic pink. Bold. The shade Helen wore when she wanted to own a room.

Ethan’s pulse thudded once, slow and deep. The perfume. The mark. Noon sunlight turning both into evidence.

“How’s Helen?” Denis asked casually. “Tell her I said hi.”

“Busy,” Ethan said. His voice didn’t break. He wouldn’t let it.

Denis grinned. “She was always good at that.”

Ethan reached for his phone before the air could tighten further. He dialed home. Rings stretched into silence. He cut the call and hit her cell. Two beats, then:

“Ethan,” Helen’s voice, bright, echoing faintly like tile behind it. “Sorry—I didn’t hear the first one.”

“Where are you?” His tone was steady steel.

“At home,” she said. “Shower. Can you hear it?”

He listened. Water hissed faintly—or maybe a faucet against a phone. His eyes slid to the screen: 12:14 p.m.

“At noon?” he asked.

“Why not?” A small laugh. Sharp. “Is there a law against being clean?”

“No,” he said. “Just seems—”

“What do you need?” she cut in.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Good. Talk later.” She hung up before he could answer.

Ethan stared at his reflection in the black glass. His own face looked foreign, like a bad photograph. He set the phone down, slow, precise.

John was watching. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. His hand found Ethan’s shoulder, warm and brief.

“You okay?” John said quietly.

“I want to hang myself,” Ethan said flatly. Not a joke. Just air turned into sound.

John squeezed once, harder than necessary. “You won’t,” he said. “You’re too damn tidy.”

Ethan almost laughed. Almost.

Across the table, Denis lifted his martini like a toast to irony. “To good friends,” he said.

Ethan raised his water. The lemon slice bumped the rim like a pulse.

“To afternoons,” he said, and drank something that didn’t taste like water at all.