Wednesday Comes
It’s 3:15. I phone Miss Carson, my confessor. With the pleasant Saturday morning of feminine supervision and chat, for some reason the demanded call no longer chafes, somewhat mocking words no longer bringing irritation.
I announce my departure for 225 Second Street.
“Do be a brave boy for me, Ryan,” the words of a comforting mother. “It’s too bad you need to be blindfolded. Tears... so telling... so empowering for a woman...” her thought left uncompleted.
So it’s to the hall, down the elevator, through the lobby, to the parking lot, into my car... the short drive requiring little time. I park across the street.
Suitcase in hand I go to the side door, down half a flight of steps, passing the second door, proceeding to the third marked with the numeral 3. Door opened, t
