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As the train hurtled towards the pulsing heart of New York, Ethel Brandenbourg was the singular obsession consuming Ernest's thoughts. The ghost of her kiss haunted his lips and his senses flared to life with the phantom scent of her hair as it had caressed his face.
But stepping onto the ferry destined for Manhattan, those electric last three weeks flickered out in his mind, if only momentarily. All the passions he'd shelved in her presence—because she didn't share them—came flooding back like a storm surge. His anticipation to reunite with Reginald Clarke was a fire in his belly. There was something magnetic about Reginald that seemed to grow in his absence. The man was sparing with words in his letters, claiming that "Professional writers must sell their soulful prose, not squander it on personal notes." Ernest ached for those late-night sessions in Reginald's art-filled haven, diving deep into the philosophical rabbit holes until they were swallowed by shadows.
He also faced an avalanche of unopened mail back at his place—a self-imposed exile from his social world since he’d made a mysterious exit post-Ethel encounter. Only Jack had received a cryptic hint navigated via a hastily scribbled note.
He was fervently hoping Reginald would be there despite the night creeping towards 10 PM; cursing that technology couldn't shrink distance and time into nothingness. It gnawed at him how urban life sentenced us to squander irreplaceable hours in commute—time devoured by steel beasts and concrete pathways leading nowhere but forward.
An intense restlessness took hold of Ernest in the confines of the subway; every shuddering metal grind a reminder of matter’s cruel obstruction—a jailer keeping the spirit from breaking free and ascending into endless skies.
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Finally getting back to the house, he found out from the kid in the hall that Clarke had bailed. In a snit, he barged into his place, sorting through the pile of mail. There were offers from magazine honchos, gigs he couldn’t afford to blow off. Everywhere, papers and mags were like hungry monsters, ready to gobble down his precious time. The novel he was itching to write would have to wait—weeks, maybe more.
In the stack was a note from Jack, sent from some podunk in the Adirondacks where he was holed up with his folks. Ernest cracked it open with a feeling somewhere between anxiety and dread. While he chewed over Jack’s words again and again, worry lines started digging trenches across his forehead—those weren't going anywhere anytime soon—and his face soured like milk left out in the sun. Something was off-kilter with Jack; something subtle but nagging. Their connection had hit some static. It might've been nothing major—a temporary glitch—or maybe Ernest himself was to blame. But it still stung like hell.
For reasons unknown, it seemed Jack couldn't keep step with Ernest's wandering thoughts anymore. There was only one other person who ever caught on without missing a beat—Reginald Clarke. Being not just any joe but a poet with vision, Clarke could read Ernest like an open book—even when the pages stuck together. Ethel could have been on that wavelength if it wasn't for love throwing a fog over everything she saw.
So when Reginald's key sounded in the door close to witching hour, Ernest was buzzing with relief. There Clarke stood—all charisma and electric as ever—unchanged by time or tide. Clarke had this eerie knack for stripping down souls bare to their bones. Even without blabbing about Ethel Brandenbourg beyond mentioning she was cooling her heels in Atlantic City, Ernest got the vibe that Reginald saw right through him, spotting all the new quirks Ernest picked up while they were apart.
Hanging with Reginald, Ernest felt pure freedom—he could let his true colors fly without a lick of shame or fear of getting twisted by someone else's misunderstanding. And oddly enough, all the feelings he normally reserved for Ethyl and Jack temporarily shifted gears and channeled straight toward Reginald Clarke.