When he didn’t respond, I said, “What about you?”
        “That woman at Starbuck’s.”
        I struggled to remember. “The one in the red dress who got out of the convertible?”
        “No. The one in the white sweater with the bouncing tits.”
        This amused me. “The one you were watching leave the place?”
        “I guess. I was trying not to be too obvious.”
        I shrugged. “I don’t think she noticed but I did. You were doing what I’ve done a million times: the old swivel-neck.”
        He collected his thoughts. “There was just something free and loose about the way she stood there. She was standing near but it didn’t seem to matter to her at all. Our eyes met one time and she made this little smile but wasn’t in the least bit uncomfortable. And then the way she was shaking the sugar into her coffee, almost like she was doing it on purpose, like she was showing off her boobs and her body, like she saw me watching and was almost enjoying it.”
        I thought about this. “Maybe she was.” Then as the train rocked over Oakland, we fell silent and I mulled over his words.
        A week after the San Francisco outing, Kyle made a “been drinkin’” call. In recent months, he had made a conscious effort to reduce his alcoholic intake, this because he’d been busted buying crack from a prostitute and almost lost his state job, then by the grace of god, didn’t, but had to attend a diversion program and was given constant drug tests and not even allowed to drink beer, but when the probation was over, still thought it was a good idea to not fall off the wagon, but then the depression returned and began to drink again. One night after nine beers he climbed into his truck and cruised past the stroll on Stockton Blvd. where he’d been arrested, but at least didn’t go so far as to stop. Still, he was drinking and driving again, and more often now when we he called, I realized he’d “been drinkin’.”
        This time, after rambling for twenty minutes about the magical, glowing miracles of life, he asked me, a bit ominously, whether I’d felt inclined to intercede that day in San Francisco when the woman in the white sweater with the bouncy boobs was standing there; whether I would have interceded if he’d spoken to her.
        At first, I didn’t realize he was asking a question, then when I made no response, he prompted me. “Would you have?”
        “Would I have what?”
        “Would you have said something if I’d spoken to