On Webster Ave this morning, I stopped to check something in my bag. A woman got into her car, which I was blocking. Deep in searching, I didn’t notice her.
“Are you going to move?” She asked me.
I looked up at her. Her shoulders sank and she smiled.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m late and it’s my fault.”
“Sorry,” I said.
She smiled again and I got out of her way.