I took and empty glass quart beer bottle — Miller screw top, pace Dr. IJ — out to the week’s recycling at the curb. There was a small woman in a woolen cap and red felt vest taking cans and bottles from the tall bin. She would have heard me open the garage.
The last thing I wanted was to be hurtful. “Pardon me,” I recall saying. “Here is a bottle.”
She turned, seeming relieved not to be scolded, and took it from me and said, “Thank you.” She was upstanding.
Funny that my memory of it was only of mental events and very poorly of the actual words spoken.