The man puts his hand out, to help me off the tram.
He is old, the man. Perhaps in his mid-seventies. He has been to the ballet, with his wife. I know because they have been talking about it, regaling the beauty.
He makes me think of my father; who would always put his hand out; to help ladies off trams; to hold doors open; to help.
I think perhaps, that it is I, that ought to be helping him. That I am more capable; more youthful; more able.
I grasp his hand as he offers it. I say thank you. I smile. And he smiles back at me in return.