He imagined Shawn and Kevin lying on an LA beach, packing a sand castle together. He always was so proud of how well Shawn treated her brother. He wanted to see them again. He imagined them staring into a stranger’s eyes and smiling, calling him Daddy. What Cathleen had stolen from him. What he had stolen from himself.

He felt an arm around him. Randi was ready for the evening. He looked at her, long African hair, sharp bony features, olive complexion hidden underneath a tan foundation, the huge sunglasses that masked emerald green eyes. Her red silk dress was one of simple elegance; she was, after all, an escort, not a streetwalker. She smelled strong; strength being something she had to convey, he thought, to make her living by dong this. She smelled like a bottle of hairspray and perfume had spilled on her, another mask to hide herself.

He wondered what her story was, that she had come to live like this. They could have been in high school together, for all he knew. Maybe she could have been voted most likely to succeed; after all he had been voted most athletic. But she had wound up here instead. And after thirty-four years of Catholic upbringing, so had he.

Slinking a seductive hand on his buttocks, Randi brushed his cheek with her lips. It was six o’clock; she had an hour left with him. He wondered if he would remember her tonight, after it was all over, and if she would remember him. He wondered if he would care.

Lighting another cigarette, he beckoned her inside, closing the door behind him.