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.