Then a tentative voice piped up from across the dining room.
— Joseph Demas
I was a tourist In town, walking up the east side of Central Park, when I saw a woman sitting on a stone bench inside the park.
It was midday, but she was dressed as if for a party. Her face was In her hands, and she was sobbing as if she had just lost everything In the world.
I make my living with words and pictures, and this one was perfect: the woman’s bright red dress, her perfectly coifed blonde hair, the gray stone and green leaves, the jarring contrast of beauty and grief.
The woman’s head was down, and my camera was ready. It would take only a second, and she would never know.
I couldn’t do it, not even to snap a photo for my eyes only. In this very public place, it was her private moment, and it could not belong to me. I longed to console her, but even that feel like a trespass.