I’m looking through the latest Conspicuous Consumption at the newsstand around the corner from where I have croissants and cappuccino on Saturday mornings when somebody next to me whimpers. The somebody’s a babe who pretends not to notice me noticing her, pretends to be wrapped up in Rolling Stone’s latest cover story on Bruce Springsteen. I look for my place in the caption on the third page of the four-page spread on Gianni Versace’s new stuff for fall.

I haven’t even found it when I realize she’s started to cry. I’ve got a pale blue Polo by Ralph Lauren handkerchief with me, as I always try to, and I offer it to her. She takes off her sunglasses and uses it to dab at her eyes. She says, “Thank you,” and looks embarrassed. I do what seems the considerate thing and get back to my caption again while she sniffles.