city street sick and paper napkins

I cross the intersection in the midst of green light commotion. I could wait, but I don’t. Today, I have just finished my morning shift and I would rather run – fake shouting – through the rising exhaust fumes and gritty, gray ice slush to the other side of the street. I’m almost done in by a bicyclist (this is a blue state) and I mount the opposing curb with a self-conscious laugh.

“Sorry! Thank you!”            

It is 3 pm on a Wednesday and the type of cold that makes your head ache. A few inches in front of me, a woman vomits into her hands. She’s clean and middle-aged. She doesn't look homeless though the skin of her face is ruddy-red and craggy. I don’t process what is happening until I witness a young woman pass by. She is wearing toe shoes and carrying a canvas tote. She reaches into the bag and retrieves a single, flimsy, white paper napkin.

"Here,” says the young woman and she holds out the napkin without delaying for questions. She moves through the scene, her arm straight with the assured grip of a born mother, totally undaunted. She does not stop walking, not for a second. “Clean yourself up.”

The middle-aged woman doesn’t speak. She brings the napkin to her mouth and dabs at her chapped, pink lips. After a second, I remove myself and move along too. Nothing to see here. Whenever I am corrected, it is my first instinct to verbally confirm with another human being that I realize I have made a mistake. As if I can somehow lessen my degree of error by letting everyone know that I too understand my fallibility.

I wonder what it feels like to mutely accept the universe's care? If a stranger's outstretched hand and paper napkin looks like a gift or a jeer? If it even really matters how it feels?