Devil is in the details

It's on 6th that I bump into them, mother and Frank. I've spent the morning walking around in Midtown on my own, he asks me to join them for lunch and mother only objects with her uncomfortable body language. I pretend not to see it.

He's different, there's something about him and not just in the way he looks at me with that secret Gioconda smile. Mother's expensive male friends all wear black suits and plain shirts picked out by their wives, but not him. The cream colored Paul Smith jacket and Ferragamo loafers give him an air of individuality and self-awareness, and it suits him well.

We talk about communication and I suddenly hear myself asking mother what was in that letter. "Oh, nothing in particular" she says but the fraction of a second it takes for her to answer speaks volumes. Frank looks curious but doesn't ask, at least not while I'm there.