Louis steps off of the train into a deserted platform. He sighs. The train pulls away. He does not move for some time, but stands with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He tries to count the change in his right pocket by just feeling the texture of the coins. No good. He pulls out the small handful of money, frowns. He had left a larger tip then he thought he had. He shrugs, puts the money back into his pocket and makes his way to the stairwell. The young man could use it better then Louis. His mind drifts briefly back to his own youth, working his way through university by waiting tables in Montréal. He met Lena there. She always left him big tips. Very big tips.

Lena. Louis had not seen his former wife in years, not since their daughter's graduation from law school. At dinner tonight, their daughter had mentioned that her mother wanted to talk to him, just once more. The thought disturbed Louis. He knew that she had had problems with her heart, but didn't think they were so bad as that.

The cold winter air stung Louis' cheeks as he emerged from the subway station. The streets were as deserted as the subway station. He turned the collar of his cheap green coat up and hunched down into it as best he could. For a moment, Louis felt like laughing at himself. He used to do this when he was a child, pretending he was a turtle. He would slowly amble along, and try and bite his mother's hand when she would tell him to walk faster.

Lena. Louis unlocked the front door of his building, making sure the latch caught behind him before walking down the stairs to his basement apartment. It had been five years since their daughter graduated. It had been another ten since they had exchanged more then a few words. Lena. What did she have to say to him?

Louis left his coat on the floor in his entrance way. He locked the door behind him. The latch. The chain. The doorknob. He checked all three. He lent against the stool he kept by the door, and took off his shoes. He left them in the middle of the carpet, ignoring the boot rack to the side. Lena.

He made his way into his kitchen, making sure to hang his John Deere cap on it's peg. What was it that she had said to him once? Ah yes. "Louis," she had said, "I will always love you. But I cannot be married to you anymore."

"Then how can you say you love me?" He had protested, "If you loved me, wouldn't we stay married, always?"

Lena's eyes filled with tears and she turned away, "You aren't understanding-"

"I don't want to understand!" He had shouted at her, throwing his hat to the ground. They both stood in the kitchen of their old home in Montreal, the one with the breakfast nook she loved to sit in with her cat and her novels, books by people with strange names. Neither said nothing. They both watched his hat, as though waiting for it to jump back onto Louis' head. "I'm sorry," Louis said flatly. It was not what he had wanted to say. He wanted to tell her he loved her, that he loved her more then French, then good wine, then his hat. He didn't, his mouth would not make the words. Neither could hers, it seemed, for she left without speaking. Lena.

He called his daughter's mobile phone. She had just gotten home as well. "Yes," he said in response to her question, skipping hellos, how-are-yous, "I would like the number." He wrote down the digits, thanked her, hung the phone back on the hook. He wrote her name under the number. Lena. He hadn't had her phone number in years. Nearly twenty.

"Lena," he said out loud, as he picked the receiver back up and quickly dialed the number. He began to sweat slightly as the phone began to ring. "Hello?"

"Lena," he said, barely whispering. The other line was silent. "Lena?" he said a little louder, afraid and half hoping he had dialed the number wrong, would have to hang up, would have to give up.

"Loo!" Cried the voice, "Is that you?"

"Yes," he responded as flatly as he had apologised to her all those years ago.

"Thank god," she said, laughing.

"Yes," Louis said, now smiling, "Thank god."