Digging into my back pocket, I pull out my handkerchief and offer it to the now sniffing bundle of palpable sadness. She stares at the piece of cloth in my hand, then my face, then the handkerchief, then my face. I wiggle the fabric a little. If she doesn’t take it soon my momentary lapse in judgment is going to expire. Her button nose wrinkles, and her shoulders shake. Is she... laughing at me?
