The woman in the beige coat was a divorcee. She had long suspected that her husband was unfaithful to her, and one day, shamefully, decided to succumb to her untrusting instincts and read his e-mails. She was not too bitter over what she discovered. It was a relief to knew where she stood.

The mustachioed man, hair greased tightly against his scalp, ran a seafood restaurant catering to tourists. Although he took great pride in the quality of crab cakes served, the chief purpose of the establishment was to launder money for his brother-in-law, a ruthless but charming member of the mob. Mr. Mustache would like more control in his life, but he is lacks the confidence to separate himself from his family and lacks the courage to be anything more than one of their instruments.

The balding gentleman with the finely crafted cane was an oil tycoon. He was born in poverty, son of first-generation Czech immigrants, but used his considerable intelligence and incredible cunning to manipulate his way up the business world. He loves his grandchildren, and pays for their piano lessons with the sweat and blood of illegal aliens.

Or not. Their faces fade as they walk into the distance. The draw of what might have been always lingers.