He was skirting the outdoor tables, smelling faintly of urine, singing his song and muttering naughty comments that made us smile, and I wondered how life would have been different if he’d been my dad. I shared this thought with my companion, who gave me a look that mingled pity with disgust, which isn’t easy. It seemed it might be wise to keep my musings to myself. When the salad came, I noted that the sharpness of the dressing had avoided all hints of bitterness. A miracle of balance, I said. And I thought I could taste a hint of melon in the wine. But in reality I was still following the tottering gait of my imagined father across the plaza, shadowing him through the evening until he eventually went slack and I carried him back to his den beneath the overpass, where I wrapped him carefully in his tarp and waited until his breathing deepened and I knew he was asleep.