Finished marking all the midterm exams and was quite pleased with myself. Walked into a light rain with a whole load of nice thoughts about how to spend the afternoon.

First, lunch. I crossed the road to Susie's, my favorite east-side lunch spot; it's vegetarian and feels like New England (is cozy, has DIFFERENT CHAIRS).

Ahead of me in line was a man who seemed to be standing in an inappropriate, annoying place. I couldn't squeeze past him to see my options. I couldn't hear him, only the counter-man's responses: he was getting black coffee, £1.40 or something (that's a lot for black coffee). He had with him a bag that was torn at the seams, it looked like a hand-me-down or a find-me-somewhere.

He was taking a long time to order; he was moving slowly. Searching and searching in his pocket for the money. I noticed he had a heavy brown beard and several layers of clothes; he was middle-aged and had a lined face; he seemed weary. The counter-man put the coffee up after payment was finally produced.

I ordered lunch & paid. It was easy to find the crisp cash-machine notes in my wallet. At Susie's, you get 2 entrees and one salad—I got a "Belgian-style" ratatouille, spinach lasagne, and a salad of grated carrots and red cabbage. I regret this policy of Susie's because usually I'd be happy with just 2 entrees, or just 1. Normally I'd be happy with smaller portions, too. But I didn't ask for less.

The man was sitting alone at a corner table with his cup of black coffee. It was the kind of table I'd choose, and the kind of coffee I'd choose. I could see myself in this guy. He just sat in the corner, keeping to himself, slowing working down that warm black coffee.

I had to choose a seat near him. I realized I'd be sitting in front of him with my huge plate of warm, tasty food. I didn't want to make eye contact but I felt his presence—unassuming but huge. I looked up once or twice and saw he was looking down, seeming slightly sad, sitting in this posh hippie cafe with people doing work or socializing in other corners. As I ate I kept sending my gaze out the window, though it was frosted over.

I knew I didn't need all this food. I felt hungry going in, but just half of what was on my heaping plate would have satisfied me. I wondered when this man had last eaten, or had a nice warm lasagne with melted cheese on top. Maybe often—maybe not.

They say homeless people have internalized their marginal role, have learned they're not supposed to do things uncouth; not to take food off someone's plate in a commercial establishment; even if no one were hurt.

The large busboy hovered nearby in flourescent green, waiting for an opportunity to establish order.

If I left my plate half full, the busboy would collect it. Which is the greater affront—to greedily eat more food than you need, or to leave good food to waste in front of a hungry man? That old saw about the starving children in Africa is rot—there's no way to send your table scraps to Africa, after all (Africans need strong local food production and an economy that can distribute it successfully). But this man was within an armspan of me and my delicious, unneccessary lunch. I thought of saying, "Are you hungry, sir?" But I too was held back. I walked out with food left on my plate.