I had just parked downtown late yesterday afternoon. I was going printing, and was sorting through boxes of paper in the hatchback of the Audi.

I paid for parking in one of the world’s most awful parking meters that we have here. A ritual of feeding in my debit card—it doesn’t take bills—pushing the wrong button, pushing the wrong button, pushing the right button, waiting waiting, snatching, frowning and peeling-sticking the receipt into the driver’s-side window.

Across the street during this, parked, or idling, on the corner, in a car, was a young woman. I noticed at first because I heard a small, shrill sound. I saw that she was talking on a cellular phone. Her arms covered her face. She was moving around a lot.

Then I heard that she was screaming-crying. She stopped talking on the telephone. And then crying again, more solid and thorough this time.

And I stood there feeling horrible. What tragedy? What death? What illness? What love lost?

She looked normal as far as someone like me would define: small, late-model silver Honda, blonde. Pale and far away. She could be someone I knew once. She could be from California. She could be a dental assistant. She could be me.

All I could think was: “Not my tragedy. Not my tragedy.” And it sunk into me for some reason, this sadness, this cosmic quirk that allowed me to escape whatever it is she was suffering. I wanted to help. I wanted to stay away. I didn’t want to stare. A cloud cleared for an eye-blistering moment, then it was dark again in the sky.

The feeling of tragedy stayed with me for a while. As I printed, I thought when trying not to think of those things that can make us react that way. Things affect me.