“Fifty percent.”Simon blinked. He set his cup down unsteadily. A wave of cold coffee splashed out.“Of what? Profit?”Her laugh tinkled like wind chimes in a summer breeze.“With your margins? Fifty percent of revenue, Doctor.”Simon paled to a colour only seen on corpses.“Revenue?” The word came out as though he had two hands around his throat. “I can't.”India laughed again. “Please. I'm not asking for what you can't afford.”“I can't do it, India. Be reasonable.”“Be reasonable? From the man who told me to skip breakfast and lunch? The man who's made a million times what he's paid me from my fucking tits?” India caught her anger and carefully suppressed it like she was screwing shut a bottle of perfume. She exhaled. “Fifty percent.”Simon looked at her tits. Even beneath her wool sweater, the shape was apparent. Men across the shop kept stealing glances at her. The gawking barista had already broken two cups.“I don't even need you,” Simon mumbled. “I’ve given hundreds of women your tits.. “So that’s my story. What’s yours?” she redirected the conversation.“I seem to spend my time split between a job I hate and a woman that keeps me as a plaything. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I really want out of life . . . and keep coming up with the same answer. It’s just that I have no idea of how to get from one point to the other. I guess that makes me just about as confused as you, doesn’t it?”, was all he could tell her.“So? What do you intend to do about it? Are you going to sit on your butt and grow roots, or are you going to actually break down and get a life for yourself?” Mary Ellen’s reply was meant as both a question and as an emotional shove. It was the only way she could think of to get John to commit to some kind of future. Hopefully, that future would include his son, and maybe her, too. It was still his decision, though, and she wouldn’t push him any further than she just had.“That’s the reason I came out here today,” Dave replied, “because a.
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