I’m sitting next to a middle aged Caucasian man on the subway. He’s dressed in a cheap leather jacket, blue jeans and dress shoes; his hair is slicked back and he’s wearing shades. In his hands he holds an iPad on which he’s watching a video, listening to the audio on headphones. Every so often he laughs out loud. He’s close enough for me to steal a couple of glances at what’s playing: it’s a standup comedy act (coincidentally I’ve just read a review of this special, so I recognize it immediately). A while later my gaze strays to the seat opposite us. A young woman is sitting staring blankly at her phone, her face puffy and her eyes bloodshot. Occasionally she reaches up and wipes a tear from her cheek with the sleeve of her jacket. Is she aware of the man sitting across from her laughing so un-selfconsciously at his video? Or is she completely immersed in her own sorrow, as oblivious to her surroundings as he is to his? For a split-second I contemplate approaching her, perhaps asking her if she’s okay – of course I dismiss the idea out of hand as absurd, intrusive and inappropriate. But I also feel moved to do something to demonstrate that not all fellow passengers are indifferent New Yorkers immersed in their own private bubbles…