Horace wakes up at 6:30 AM. He gazes toward his wife but she’s brazenly curled up in a ball with her back toward him. After sighing his morning sigh, Horace gets up and walks to his study. He glances at his bonsai tree. It’s obsessively trimmed. He then sets Newton’s cradle in motion and begins his ritual of looking into the brown eyes reflecting back at him from the mirror, putting on his suit, and rehearsing the meeting’s talking points. Newton’s restless balls set the rhythm. As he’s mentally orating, Horace fixates on certain words in his mind: ‘Shares. Shares. Share… share.’

On the other side of town, in a confining apartment, Seth’s mind transitions from the dream-state to the hangover. He stares with wild morning eyes into the lone wallpaper decorating the room, a print of Jackson Pollock’s One: Number 31. In the splashes of color, Seth sees the flow of the mighty Nile bringing a calamitous flood to a people who pray in vain for dependable crops. Then he associates the explosions of colors with the bustling city, a dizzying termite nest of daily races. Suddenly he remembers. The interview, he screams within himself. Seth runs to the bathroom with a towel and a pair of shorts in his hands. The door’s locked. He bangs on it and shouts, “Don’t be long, dude!” Great. The perks of living in an apartment downtown and having to share… to share. Share.

Coltrane blows his saxophone as Horace butters his toast. He adorns it with salmon and sprinkles it with salt. He takes a few bites as he looks over the NASDAQ. His wife Sally walks into the room and glances toward him, hoping to spot a soul through Horace’s glowing irises. But Horace is immersed in deciphering his stocks, hunting regular rhythms in the market. Or maybe he’s entranced by Coltrane’s sentimental flow. He finally smiles toward her general direction. But only for a moment. Unconvincingly.

Seth is already potentially late so there isn’t any time for breakfast. He gulps down a cup of dubious coffee and smokes a cigarette and a half. His stomach has gotten used to the neglect from the starving nights he spent playing jazz clubs. His roommate Damien senses the anxiety permeating from Seth’s angry exhalations of smoke and says: “Look, my man. Interviews aren’t that hard. All you gotta do is show them you’re a confident guy. A confident, resourceful, organized guy, y’know?” Seth stares at him and thinks: Why do you think I’m so uneasy? Look at me. You really think they’ll be convinced?

Sally’s purple bathrobe rubs against Horace’s business suit as she’s hugging him goodbye. There’s something mystifying about him today. While hugging her, Horace is unconsciously fumbling with something from his keychain. An Ankh. In the inner city, Seth lights up a cigarette as he winks to Damien. Then he darts away like an overflowing river. Meanwhile, Horace gazes into the rear-view mirror to examine the white stubble punctuating his face and tells himself, ‘It’s fine, Horace. That white comes from all the hard work you’ve put into trading. Ain’t nothing to worry about… you hear that?!’ As he waits at the bus station, Seth looks into a muddy rain puddle forming at his feet and sees his own reflection. We've got this. It’s just an interview. If I managed to charm those folks at the bar with my take of Blue Train last night, I’ll do just fine with some pencil pusher. S’all good.

Horace is on one side of the street and Seth on the other. The Zebra crossings unite their disparities. They wait for red to turn green. In his impatience, Horace glances to the other side and sees a young man with a cheap suit and a disheveled beard. His eyes are a mesmerizing green. Horace’s heart increases its tempo like Newton’s cradle balls flung by the hands of an overeager kid. But he tells himself he didn’t feel anything. Seth looks toward the crowd on the other side and notices a man in a suit trying not to stare at him, almost succeeding. He laughs at the middle-aged man’s timidity.

The light turns green and the two men walk across. Their sights and reflections entangle rhythmically. As their bodies approach each other their souls send sparks of energy. They speak an ancient and wordless language built on intuition.

‘I know you… from somewhere.’ / I’ve seen you before.

‘I’ve loved you eons ago… ‘ / … when our love was new.

‘You were like a mighty river.’ / And you were a restless crop.

‘But things are different now.’ / Are they?

Confusion. The shared feeling is overwhelming. And the familiarity of their connection feels strange. It’s too much. And then… they both cross the street. They reach the other side and look behind at the same time, toward the other shore. Yet the excuses keep pouring: “I… can’t. I got a wife… oh, and a meeting!” / I… would love to… but I’ve got an interview… Maybe in another life.

Horace gave a mediocre presentation. He couldn’t concentrate. Seth didn’t get the job. He would have to find some miraculous gig to help him pay rent.

Horace came back to that crossing. Again and again. But he could never find him again. After a month, he left home. He filled a bag with his belongings and took a bus into the burning sunset. The horizon transformed into an ocean of mingling color drops.

Where his bonsai used to be, she could only find a mound of leaves. He left a mess on his study desk. Between discarded things, Sally found a letter. As she read it, she wept. But she understood. Many things made sense. Too many.

One day, Seth decided to buy a Newton’s cradle. He didn’t understand why he bought such a weird thing. But it made all the sense in the world. He brought it home, cleaned his dirty desk, and placed the thing on it. And then he set it in motion.