He had a picture with him that he pulled out just before sitting down on the edge of the beam, both feet dangling. He kept looking at that picture, as if he was trying to memorize it. Or maybe it was one of those 'last look' things - I figured it was the latter when he let the scrap of paper fall, the wind catching it and blowing it further up the river before finally letting it sink down, settling on the water almost gracefully.

He spoke then, loud enough to be heard over the quiet rumble of late-night traffic and the wind. He said a lot of things about regrets, about how he was ashamed, that he should have done better... I coughed, quiet. He turned, startled, one hand clinging to the steel beam beneath him. I held out a cigarette. He started to shake his head but paused, nodded, took it and carefully fished a lighter out of his pocket. I had mine lit by the time he'd found the lighter and we each took a deep drag.

Smoking is calming, if you're addicted... I know from person experience. He seemed like the type who tried to hide his addictions - you know, they stick the bottles of gin under the bed, they can't stop binge-eating chocolate, they think it's fun to rape a woman or fuck a kid. All addictions. Thing with addictions is that they had to start somewhere, right? It all goes back to the source...

I asked him about the girl in the picture, voice harsh with a few too many cigarettes, a lot more coffee than I really needed, and no food. At first she was, at least in his eyes, precious, perfect, and apparently too good to be true, since after a few minutes of that he shook his head. His speaking slowly shifted, it wasn't his fault, how could she be so stupid, he didn't even know her any more. She wasn't his daughter any more. All her life she'd caused him problems. Maybe he could have done a bit better by her but maybe not, and what he'd done didn't matter any more. She was worthless. Gone. He prayed that he'd never have to see her face again.

I tossed the still-lit cigarette over, watching to see if it'd hit water or concrete... it landed on the bridge, the night dark enough that I could still just barely see it until a passing car blew it away. He started to speak, asking if I had any kids. I climbed to my feet, using the movement as a delay, trying to figure out how to say this. It didn't take all that much thinking, really. Just the courage to say it.

"One kid. Yours. Consider your prayer granted."

I stepped backward off the beam, wanting to watch his face as I fell. The look on my father's face was almost enough to make up for sixteen years. Almost.