The train that took him to her building left 15 minutes after the hour, every hour, from 5 a.m to midnight, three stops, 22 minutes. It would pass 5 dimly lit tunnel access doors, bad poetry, the occasional rats running on the pipes, continuing other parts of the city. He made his way up the station stairs, leaning into the wind sucking into the tunnel, arriving on the street, four blocks up, past the Armenian chicken joint and the Starbucks where he used to work. The scent of sycamore trees and magnolias always grew stronger as he approach the front steps. Her windows were on the second floor, third and fourth from the right.
He thought about it for a long time, going over there tonight. This time he’d knock on her door and tell her everything. Would she invite him in? It was getting late and he had to work tomorrow. It’s not a good thing that he knew where she lived. She should’ve never contacted him. All these years later, Caitlin never told him about her. This grown woman was his daughter. What confusion and shame, everyday a wave of both, and some guilt to go along. Back at his place, looking out his studio window often to see if she’d be braver of the two. He would play out scenes, buying her lunch, walking her down the isle, holding a grandchild. Her birthday was last week, the date engraved in his memory from their first meeting , now 3 months ago. He’ll just mail the card tomorrow, but that’s chicken shit, he can just deliver it himself, he thought. Tomorrow, he’ll try again tomorrow, he’ll see her then.