A breeze snakes past my observation post on Castro Street, the main drag in Mountain View, California, as nouveau-millionaires parade past coffee shops, banks, the “new mission-style” City Hall and Performing Arts Center, restaurants of every ethnicity, and two funeral homes.

The millionaires’ shiny new Benzes and Teslas and top-down BMWs and custom-made reclining bikes scream money. Clout. Potency.

Ahhh, the musky smell of testosterone.

The air hums with rampant expectations. I adjust the lens on my Steiner Commander III Binoculars and peer at one driver after another. How many of these wannabes know what I know? How many ever think about losing their toys? Their reputations? Their power?

A bearded homeless guy sipping a tall Starbucks shuffles by. He stops. Plants his feet wide. Sets his coffee between his filthy, broken-down tennis shoes. He glances at me and curls his index fingers inside his thumbs. He places his binoculars over his eyes. Wiggles his ass twice, tilts his head then studies the cloudless sky with slow, exaggerated movements.

My nostrils flare. Loser. I wave the Steiners. May they trigger a full-blown PTSD-attack.

Laughter erupts from deep in his throat.

A muscle ticks under my left eye.

He drops his hands at his sides, picks up his coffee cup, exhales through his mouth.

My fingers twitch. I slide my right hand inside my suit jacket.

He throws me a smirk and shambles on down the street, middle finger held high, humming the first bars of The Star Spangled Banner.

God, it would be so easy to teach the asshole a lesson about respect, but I ignore the lowlife, remove my hand from my jacket, and stare through the Steiners again.

Birds sing, sunshine warms my bare head, and crimson-gold leaves ripple on young trees.

Not quite paradise, though, as I study my wife with her latest, besotted male friend.

The October sun shines so extravagantly I hardly need binoculars, but I take pleasure in their precision. Two twists and I see better than if I pressed my nose against Le Boulanger’s floor-to-ceiling windows. They face Castro, and the Steiners’ zoom feature offers a perfect view of the couple I observe with open curiosity.

Curiosity because I am searching for clues.

No, for answers.

For insight.

For understanding into this puzzle.

From my vantage point in the parking lot of St. Joseph’s Church, I count the white hairs on the head of my wife’s balding companion. His eyes—weasly, blah brown, too close together, and surrounded by prune-colored hollows—rest on gaunt cheekbones above a weak chin.

What does she—six days short of her forty-ninth birthday—see in him with her naked eye that I cannot see with my military-grade binoculars?

Customers mill around their table. Some queue up to a glass display of pastries and breads. Others stand in line to order their morning caffeine fix. No one takes particular notice of the two friends, but as owner-CEO of my soon-to-be-acquired biotech company, I understand the damage notoriety exacts.

Bad press spooks clients, boards of directors, potential recruits, employees, and investors.

A cheese Danish lies on a plate between them. My wife lays the fork to one side, pinches off a crumb, clamps it between her thumb and index fingers. Her other three fingers point toward the ceiling then drop to graze his hand.

My knuckles whiten on the Steiners. A CEO’s tarnished reputation almost guarantees him a swift and embarrassing exit. He may rise phoenix-like from the ashes—but not without enduring vicious public scrutiny and humiliation.

Eyes narrowed, I study the friend’s turkey wattles. They shake as he leans toward her on one elbow. He hangs on her every word, every syllable, every breath. He opens his mouth and takes the morsel she offers. His whole face lights up, as if fueled by an inner radiance.

Small, yellow teeth crowd friend’s less than generous mouth. He chews, swallows, and says thank you. Wrinkles ironed in by the sun crease his sallow skin. If he controlled his goofy, adolescent grin, he could pass for a Renaissance master’s depiction of an early martyr.

Seeing them—without knowing she’s married with three young children since she’s not wearing her eight-carat diamond engagement ring—you might smile and envy the private island they’ve created in the hustle of the fast lane. You might think they are the only two people in the coffee shop.

In the world.

In the cosmos.

With the slow, calculated deliberation of a seductress, she removes the plastic lid from the cup in front of her. Her friend—a fly in a spider’s web—fixates on the lid. He’s so smitten, he’s blind. What are the chances he’d even notice her engagement ring?

She pushes the lid toward him. His chest stops rising and falling. So does mine. He’s totally oblivious silk threads can prove stronger than steel bonds. I, thanks to the Steiners, am completely aware of her deviousness. I press my forehead hard against the binoculars and stare at her left hand. No tell-tale white line from wearing a wedding ring for fifteen years.

Goddammit. Just how long—this time—has she been playing the single, unattached woman of the world?

Steam—visible through the Steiners—rises from the cup. Her lips purse as if about to bestow a kiss.

Her friend’s jaw drops.

Her gaze lowers demurely. She lifts the steaming cup. The tip of her tongue appears between her teeth like a small pink viper. Her tongue flicks her top lip, then withdraws. She blows on the vapor.

Her friend gapes—as if stunned by an angel.

“You have no idea how fine the line is between angel and slut,” I say aloud. My lungs constrict. My breathing slows. Hands shaky, I fumble open my briefcase. I stow the binoculars, and then slam the lid shut.

No one observing me would guess I’m suddenly breathing a little faster than normal. My resting heart rate is forty-eight and my BP an enviable 110/60. Exhaling, I relax my grip on the briefcase and wait for the light. A Google bus stops on the cross street of Church for a dozen bright-eyed worker-bees. Their reserved, luxury coach will convey them the three miles to their private kingdom by the Bay. I reach the opposite curb, and my pulse ratchets up.

On a hunch, I pivot away from Castro and jog for the parking lot behind the bakery.

I’m betting the friend will depart by the rear entrance. Unless AnnaSophia coaches him to shoot out the front door.

That scenario would spoil the full impact of my surprise arrival.

Caution controls the weak of imagination. In the parking lot, I tap an icon on my phone and smile. Fire burns inside me, but my mind attains a cool focus.

“Hello, Darling.” My fingers spasm on the phone. I savor the two words in my mouth as if honey coats each syllable. I resist laughing.

What I’d give to see her cheating face. “Are you at Starbucks?”

In my mind’s eye, I imagine her long, titan waves cascading around her wanton face. The picture of innocence. Making her huge eyes bigger. Wider. Luminescent. Blameless.

Fake innocence.

Had I seen her red hair that first time we met fifteen years ago, I’d have walked away. I’d have left her jammed between her two bohemian boyfriends and never have thrown her a second glance.

My gut roils. No time now to gnash my teeth and beat my breast. Rectifying that long-ago mistake drives every decision I make.