I caught the Harry Callahan show at Pace/MacGill Gallery on 57 Street, then I caught the crosstown bus. I got on at Madison and took a seat on the lower level. At Fifth Avenue, a few people descended from the raised gallery at the back to exit the bus, including an elegantly dressed woman with a shopping bag from a fancy store. I moved up. As I was sitting down, I noticed something wedged between my seat and its neighbor: a pair of women's gloves. Black, long, leather. Expensive, by the look of them. The door below was just closing. Too late to say or do anything. The woman across the aisle from me, not so elegantly dressed, met my eyes. "She left them," she said. We rode across from each other for two blocks in silence. Then, just before my stop, she took a step into the aisle and grabbed the gloves. "Let's see," she said quietly, sitting back down. She held up one glove to her rather small hand, then tossed them both into the bag at her feet.