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Three endless weeks meandered by, the nature of their connection unaltered to the naked eye. Yet there was a force to Ernest's presence, an intangible allure that left a void when absent. This unseen energy he emitted without effort or intent, which she continually challenged with a keen vigilance and persistent deflection.

As pressing work commitments dictated a hasty retreat to the New York hustle, it seemed his advances had made no visible dent. But deep within, Ethel felt her resolve wavering, spellbound if not sinking into the depths of affection. There was an inexplicable maternal pull she felt towards Ernest—sensual at its core and nearly kin to the throes of passion. She waged a fierce internal battle against this tide of sentiment, outwardly composed, always cognizant of the gulf between twenty and thirty.

Ever more conscious of her vulnerability, she steered their talks away from the personal domain, often toward his professional endeavors.

“So,” she drawled languidly as her fan danced in her hand, “what new devilry has brewed in your mind from your days by the shore?”

“Ah,” he replied with fervor lighting his eyes, “I've been steeped in inspiration. It’s going to be rivers flowing into the novel I pen once I’m nested back on Riverside Drive.”

“The one that’ll capture America's heart?” she probed.

“Could be.”

“And will Clarke be your champion in it?”

Her words carried an undercurrent of spite—not in the words themselves but in the pause laden with implication before the last. Ernest picked up on that sinister interval and recognized that her adoration for Reginald lay extinguished. It resided in her inner sanctum now, frigid and rigid—a memory ensnared among countless others—each encased within the sarcophagus of remembrance.

"No way," he shot back, irritation edging his words as her hint hit a nerve, "Clarke ain't no saint. You think he's got some magic touch over my work?"

"Listen, kid," she retorted, "I've seen his type. His aura’s huge; it smothers everyone around him, eating away at their own thinking. His shine drowns out others—his words eclipse theirs, snuffing out their own sparks. Follow him too closely and you'll warp into his shadow—twisted like those bizarre bonsai trees, all gnarled and weird, grown not by nature's hand but by some twisted vision from a land far away."

"I'm nobody's puppet," Ernest shot back sharply, "and you're painting Clarke with some dark fantasy brush. His victories fire me up, make me hungry to forge my own path. We overlap in spaces, sure, but my road to success is paved with different stones. He’s not the puppet master you make him out to be—we barely trade ideas." And as if a ghost from yesterday brushed against him, he shrugged off its shroud. "As for my novel," he forged on, ignoring his own digression, "you’re looking too hard for the hero."

"Who could it possibly be?" Ethel teased with a playful glint in her eye, "You?"

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Ernest grimaced slightly, letting vulnerability show for just a beat. "Ethel, c'mon now—serious time. You know well it's you lighting up those pages."

She lit up with a grin. "That's one hell of a compliment," she quipped back. "Nothing thrills me more than being captured forever in words—as I've kinda lost hope that my art'll do that job. Been fictionalized before and man, I'm buzzing to see how you use me in your storyline."

"I'd rather keep it under wraps just for now," Ernest sidestepped her curiosity with caution tinted in his tone. "It’s dubbed 'Leontina'—that’s your essence there. But the devil’s in the details—you get that words ain't worth dirt if they ain't woven right. So spilling the plot now? It’d be half-baked at best."

"You've got a point," she said, taking a stab in the dark. "Pick your moment to spill the beans to me. Let's shift gears for now. Penned anything new since your last killer collection of poems in the spring? This is when you're supposed to be belting out the tunes. Usually, by thirty, the wellspring of that raw lyrical fervor runs dry, doesn't it?"

Her probing question caught him off guard. Frankly, he was at a loss for words. A comment about his play—or rather, Clarke's—teetered on the tip of his tongue. But he checked himself just in time when he recognized that bizarre fantasy from that night was still pulling strings in his mind's back alleys. No, his recent months had been barren of creative writing triumphs. His response was about making bank. "That counts for something," he countered. "And hey, you can't expect a work of genius on the weekly. A mind crafting art isn't some factory line, after all. In this lull, I've been storing up the juice for what comes next." But he got miffed—I mean peevish—real quick and shot back, "But you? You're not even hearing me."

That snapped her out of her reverie, sparked by his excuse-making—a script she herself had down pat thanks to too many hours under Reginald Clarke's sinister shadow. Sinister—yeah, that was the first time she owned up to it. All at once it clicked: there was something else chipping away at her muse—an eerie, elusive specter—not just a star-crossed affair. It struck her then; could this unseen force be wrapping its fingers around this boy's soul too? She tore her mind apart trying to pin down her vague dread but couldn't nail it down exactly; just this nagging unease that clouded her gaze.

"Ethel," he said, his words tinged with frustration, "are you even with me? I've got to get outta here in less than thirty."

Her gaze held a soft fierceness, her eyes vulnerable yet luminous, as if a tear had polished them to shine with innocent intensity.

The sight tugged at Ernest's heartstrings. Unbidden, a wave of raw emotion surged through him – he was hers, utterly and completely, in that fleeting snapshot of time.

"Sweet, clueless kid," she whispered back. Her lips barely parted to offer: "Steal a kiss before you split, will ya?"

A tender brush of lips, that's all it was supposed to be. But then she guided his head closer, claiming his mouth with an urgency that left him breathless.

Ernest staggered back a step—this was uncharted territory for him.

"Even with your poet's soul," Ethel murmured against his lips, "you're still green in the ways of kissing."

Her mood shifted when she caught him glancing at his pocket. His hand betraying his thoughts as it reached for the watch nested there. She let him go abruptly, her voice tinged with pain: "Don’t miss your ride on my account. Go."

He tried to protest.

"Just go," she insisted, and then once more with finality: "Go to him."

Heart sinking like a stone in still water, he followed her command. He tossed her one last look from below, hat lifted high – then turned and vanished into the throng of nameless faces.

Panic gripped her for a terrifying moment – an urge to scream 'Stay! Don’t go back there!' But wisdom—or perhaps fear—sealed her mouth shut. That inner plea went unheard as Ernest’s golden locks disappeared into the swelling sea of the city.