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And there on the couch, this particular night, was a woman without a home to go back to, separated from her children, alienated from her parents, traveling toward God knows where with a small black gym bag and a bottle of beer in a paper sack.

Some might call what I felt in that moment—standing in the dark, listening to her breathing—a cleverly disguised version of schadenfreude. I prefer to think I was moving—almost imperceptibly, but moving nonetheless—along that tortuous path from the most inward-looking self-pity to the most generous empathy. At that moment, in the middle of the night, with a stranger sleeping soundly in my living room, perhaps it was enough, finally, to find myself equidistant from both.

I had wanted to wake early and go to the deli on the corner, buy some eggs and bacon, make breakfast for her. But the cigarettes and the beer and the late night of talking kept me reaching for the snooze button. When I finally rose I had time only for a quick shower. She was still asleep on the futon, curled in a little ball, when I went into the bathroom.

After I shaved and dressed I noticed the futon was upright, the comforter folded neatly at one end. I heard running water and clanking dishes from the kitchen, and I was pleased to think of her feeling at home enough to help herself to breakfast. I straightened my tie in the mirror, pleased with myself, too: my benevolence, my restraint, my delicate diplomacy across the borders of race and class.

Of course, I should have known this would be the last time I’d see her.

When I went into the kitchen she was not boiling water for tea or pouring a bowl of cereal, as I had envisioned. She stood in front of the sink with a sponge in her hand, scrubbing my dirty dishes.

'Please,' I said. 'Don’t do that.'

She turned, eyes wide, startled by my tone. I realized I’d spoken with a harshness I hadn’t intended. She finished rinsing the bowl in her hand, placed it on the rack, and turned off the water.

'Sorry,' she said. 'I was just tryin’ to help.'

From the literary journal The Georgia Review (Spring 2001). Subscriptions: $24/yr. (4 issues) from the University of Georgia, Athens, GA 30602.

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