You boarded the Inbound F Train at Jay Street Metrotech. The car you boarded was completely packed, so much so that you could only manage to squeeze perhaps three feet inside, and even then you were constrained on all sides by other passengers. I was one of those passengers. I stood perhaps two feet from you and was facing you. From where I stood I could see three tears on your left cheek. I took this to mean that you had been crying and had tried to wipe away the tears but had missed the three on your cheek. Also, you looked upset. I figured this was likely due to whatever had made you cry. Your tears made me want to comfort you, or to at least offer a few words of compassion, but I couldn’t figure a way to do it that wouldn’t make me seem like some creepy guy on the F Train. So I said nothing. And then you surprised me by getting off the train at 4th Avenue and 9th Street. And that was it – you and your tears had appeared out of nowhere, and now you and your tears were suddenly gone. Meanwhile, I, to my regret, had failed to say anything to you. And because of this I had never learned your name, nor the cause of your tears, and had managed instead to doom myself to forever thinking of you as nothing more than The Woman With Tears on the F Train.