Jackie and I met another dad and his daughter on the F train this morning. He seemed old enough to be a grandfather, though I guess I am, too. He had a creased, swollen face, the sort of face that’s seen a lot of board meetings, room service and business-class whiskey. He had a full head of gray-blond hair and was tall and well dressed, with expensive, Italian-type shoes, a trenchcoat, pink cuffs visible under the sleeve of his suit and a crease in his pants like the spine of greeting card. Except his shoes were a little worn and dusty. His hair was a little mussed. His entire outfit seemed a bit off, as though it had come from some other time and place. As though it had been purchased at the estate sale of a dead lawyer in Westchester. The girls were talking about their birthdays and Jackie said mine was in August and I said August 28th and the man said, “Right around the time of Burning Man!”

He was nice, though, with his daughter, Lena. Jackie talked to her, asked her name. Her dad wanted to know what school we were going to, then told us about theirs. When we got to Jay Street to switch trains Jackie gave Lena a hug.