'Can I use your phone please?'

An evening of people-watching is complicated by a stranger who asks the question no one wants to hear.

On a humid July evening, my Aunt Shannon and I began our decades-old ritual of eating ice cream and people-watching in a New York City park.

We started the tradition with gelato in the Village and soft serve in Chelsea when I was a kid. Then we took time off when Shannon left New York. Now I was in my 40s and was thrilled to welcome Shannon to my Brooklyn neighborhood for a pint of goat cheese and red cherry ice cream.

Her brown hair had turned mostly gray, but she had all the energy and quick wit I remembered. Together, we quietly watched over one family's dinner plans and another couple's feud until our eavesdropping was interrupted by a round-faced woman with slicked-back, bleached blonde hair.

She appeared to be in her late thirties. She wore mostly black with a few non-threatening silver studs on her sleeves. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes and a large shopping bag with a designer logo hanging from each hand, as she asked the question no one wants to hear:

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but can I use your phone?"

She spoke with a European accent, possibly Dutch.

"Where are you trying to go?" I asked, assuming she was lost and avoiding her question.

She put the bags down, gently stretched her fingers, and produced a crumpled Google Maps printout. , with a nearby address highlighted . I explained that the place she wanted to go - which she said was her brother-in-law's apartment - was nearby, just across Fort Greene Park.

"I think I got off the bus too early," she said with a hint of distress, as if she might get in trouble for arriving late. Then she asked me again if she could use my phone, which created a weight in my stomach. The request seemed personal, as if she had asked for something much more than an electronic device - like my trust or the temporary use of a kidney. But my lightning assessment told me she was not a thief. I knew navigating New York could be daunting and I wanted to help. So, as if I had no choice, I dialed the number on the card and handed over my phone.

"Hi!" she said in a smiley, drawn tone.

I assumed she was tired of shopping all day in Manhattan and eager to relax in her brother-in-law's apartment. There was a short pause as she listened. I imagined a calm European Brooklynite on the other end of the call, staring out the window of his expensive brownstone as coffee brewed in a smooth glass appliance. In my mind, he looked like a young Rutger Hauer, but not nearly as tough.

"I'm ahead of Peaches," she said.

After a pause, she repeats it, a little loudly: "Peaches".

The third time, she practically shouts the name of the restaurant, confirming that his brother-in-law was unfamiliar with this neighborhood landmark.

I waved for the phone, thinking the things might go more smoothly if I spoke directly to him. She handed it to me and I greeted him confidently, assuming he would be happy for someone to help his lost sister-in-law. Rutger Hauer, however, turned out to look a bit more like Samuel Jackson.

In a brief profanity tirade, he expressed some irritation that she had apparently escaped the bus at the wrong stop. He yelled at me with determination, every syllable of utmost importance. I explained that I was just a stranger she asked for directions.

When I asked him if he lived on the north side of the park , his assault continued: "II don't know what the north side of the park is. Who is it? Is that the bus driver?" After some more prodding from me, he finally barked out some coordinates helpful that allowed me to end the call.

"I was so nervous when I got off the bus...I had a drink," confessed the woman to Shannon. And I suddenly felt stupid that I hadn't noticed that she was at least slightly drunk. When I gave her directions to the address on her map, she seemed distracted, still staring at Shannon. And when I p...