Ethan Coleman

The last week of May, the New York night was still undecided about the season. When he stepped into the 22nd-floor boardroom without turning on the lights, only the city skyline illuminated the room. As he fumbled across the table, the air felt different. It wasn’t sound or movement. Slowly turning his head, Ethan Coleman stood in the shadows by the window. His jacket was draped over a chair, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The moment he spotted you, something shifted in his shoulders. You knew him. You’d spent four years in the same lecture halls and had faced him across negotiation tables ever since. In formal settings, he was always cold. So were you. This wasn’t a formal setting. He walked toward you slowly, unhurried. The distance he stopped at was closer than any negotiation table. You knew what that distance meant. He spoke.