Sorry, he said. The woman was blocking the doorway. He wasn’t sure he could squeeze through. She was talking to another woman. Excuse me, he said. No use. They were in an intense conversation. He stood there. He could see the bar. He thought about touching her on the shoulder but he himself hated to be touched by strangers. Once in a bar he had turned around and punched a man who had touched him on the shoulder. Jesus Christ. He couldn’t believe it. The woman wasn’t moving. In a fucking busy as shit restaurant. In fucking New York City. Who does this? Only a mentally-depraved person. This is why people lose their minds and buy guns and shoot people. It’s because of people like this. He could see the bartender place two cocktails on the bar. Excuse me! he said. The woman looked back at him. Don’t shout, she said. I’ve been standing here for five minutes, he said. Trying to get past. This woman, she said, pointing to her friend. Her boyfriend died. A crane fell and hit him. You know that crane on 53rd Street? The other woman was pulling her away to their table. He walked up to the bar and sat down. He ordered a drink. He sipped the drink. He began to smile. A crane fell and hit him. He was smiling. That was always his response to tragedy. He kept smiling.