“Oh Brad – I felt like a piece of shit. It didn’t help that she was young and lovely. I mean it would have been awful no matter who slipped and fell, but it was of course easier to feel bad about Aisha because she was so pretty and nice.

“I asked her if I could call 9-1-1. She said no; she had contacted her supervisor and wanted to wait for him. I helped pull her to a better sitting position, got her some water, talked to her. She told me she’d just bought a new motorcycle yesterday. She said she thought she’d heard something snap when she fell. At one point she looked at me with her big brown eyes and asked “Didn’t you hear me yelling?” and I just said no, and mumbled something about working in the back of the house, about music, about weird acoustics. I felt terrible not letting her know that her cries were heard, but it didn’t seem like the time to go into issues about what I thought and why I did (or didn’t) do what I didn’t do. I know that’s chickenshit but I remember thinking it wasn’t about me right then; it was about getting her help and help could come any time and that would interrupt a conversation, so we’d better not be having a complicated conversation.

“But like I said: that’s chickenshit. I was ashamed of myself and didn’t want to go into it. I can do all sorts of rationalizing…about how Aisha got to learn that desperation cries don’t get answered but quiet ones do…or how I thought it was bitch lady…or why didn’t any of the drivers go to her aid, but the fact is I didn’t put myself out, rise to the occasion, do the right thing. I pride myself on righteous behavior, and this morning I failed.”

Brad tried to reassure her but Susan wasn’t having any of it. She was part way through processing the event, and she knew that she’d have to run outside the next time she heard a cry for help. No matter who she thought it was. She didn’t want to feel this way about herself again.

It didn’t take long to settle the tab and get out of the restaurant. Brad and Susan exchanged nods with the waiter and good words with the bartender; they were making progress as Friday regulars.

In the half block to the office they caught up with the demonstration. It was pro-Palestinian and clogging their intersection. They waited at the corner. Brad thought he’d use the time to smoke a cigarette. He pulled an Export A out of the box and was trying to work his lighter when a scuffle occurred. From somewhere right in front of them an Israeli flag appeared and suddenly several young men were attempting to tear and trample it.

Something snapped in Susan. She watched as if she were outside herself while she dashed into the melee and began jerking the flag away from the boys. Boys? That’s what they seemed. She yelled at them like they were her sons, and they relented just enough that she almost had the flag. It was off the ground. She got a good grip on a corner. Then she realized someone else had an equally strong grip on the opposite corner. She pulled, downward, determined. The person at the opposite end pulled just as hard. She started to pull again but then she looked up, into a cop’s eyes, and just released her hold. The flag went with the cop.

Susan is Jewish but no Zionist. That wasn’t it. Maybe it was the Pinot Grigio or maybe the need for a karmic shift or maybe something else, but at that moment Susan, who normally is no respecter of symbols, couldn’t bear to see any flag trampled.

Brad was astonished. A little scared after the fact for his sister, as if she had jumped in to break up a dog fight. He forgot to smoke his cigarette.

Susan relished the adrenaline coursing through her neck, down her legs. She hid the high like an extramarital attraction but she walked with more vigor.

“So on a lighter note,” she said as they finally crossed the street, “let’s talk exact terms about this work arrangement.”

Brad shifted mental gears. “I’m really excited about the possibilities,” he said, “and even though everyone warns that odds are against you when you try to work with family, I’m pretty sure this will be good for both of us.”

“Don’t worry about the odds.”

“Oh yeah. That’s right. Spoken like an actuary.”

Susan giggled. “For what it’s worth, the probability of our success and the probability of our failure are bound to add to one.”

“The same old One?”

“Just One.”

“Well, I guess that’s better than zero,” Brad opined as he opened the door for them.

Susan smiled and cast her reply back like salt. “Way better,” she said, striding forward.