I was walking along Market Street, and behind me, a little too close, two tall young men were sauntering having an animated and serious conversation, speaking very clearly. “Her body, her choice. We’re practicing pulling out. Whatever happens, happens,” said one of them, and things went on from there. I really wanted to tell him it was a bad idea, but it was none of my business.

Later, I was sitting out with my adult kid at a rickety table on the sidewalk. A young man was chatting with two young women as they all sat at a nearby table. “I’m 37. I don’t need any more birthdays,” he announced, and my kid put in their earbuds so they wouldn’t have to hear any more. My kid is 43. It was a very silly thing to say. He was saying it loudly, as if he wanted everyone to hear. As if he wanted attention.

When I was teaching, sometimes other teachers would say, “That kid is just looking for attention,” and I would agree and say, “That’s reasonable. People often like attention.” I’m not a teacher any more, so I don’t have to give my attention to everyone, but it’s hard to get out of the habit.

I kept listening to the 37-year-old (who is half my age) with half an ear, at any rate, while I drank my decaf latte and wrote down things that floated into my head about the novel I’m currently writing. I don’t put the conversations I overhear into my fiction, because they wouldn’t be plausible.

Living in a city, I’m moving through a mosaic of conversations. It’s a soundscape. I dip in and out.

Sometimes it’s a visual mosaic, like the endless parade of gaunt young men in loose clothes and knit beanies walking dogs I saw the other day, all of them different young men and different dogs.

Sometimes, it’s brief scenes: A delivery man riding sidesaddle on his e-bike on the sidewalk, slipping around the pedestrians nimbly while looking at his phone. A very large man with an odd gait, whose baggy clothes made it difficult to see if he was bowlegged or just had some kind of hip injury, who walked out of the street and into the nut store.

It’s not all passive observation. I do talk to people. Trader Joe cashiers are always up for a pleasant interaction. I think it’s part of their training, and I applaud that. Someone clearly lectures them about customers at staff meetings, but also Trader Joe workers are generally wonderfully overqualified, and they even talk to each other. Much nicer than the Giant cashiers, who look sad.

Uniqlo cashiers are not friendly. They’re busy. Yesterday a Uniqlo cashier came over to take the security tag off my sweatshirt at the self-checkout, and then she rang up my purchase without asking me if I could finish it up myself, and she strode away, ignoring my thanks.

Old Navy cashiers are good at short conversations, though. One of them recently complimented my hat as he rang up my jeans, and I said it was hard to get hats that were big enough for me. He gestured at his dreads and said, “Every time I change my hairstyle, I have to change my hats,” and I took his point.

Some bus drivers are absolute delights, and others are miserable and avoidant, but I always say “Thank you,” when I get on if they lower the bus for me, and “Have a good one,” when I get off, because why not. When traffic is behaving really oddly, I get into extended conversations with bus drivers about that. It’s nice to have common interests.

I am generally polite to panhandlers, too, and have had some nice brief chats when I give them money, but I don’t want to intrude on their living space, especially when it’s a square of sidewalk barely big enough for them to sit with their stuff. My favorite panhandler is the one who is always reading a paperback, but has a cup out in front of him just in case.

If someone is striding about flailing and screaming on the sidewalk, though, I don’t usually bother to interact. I figure they’re already having a conversation, and I’m not part of it and don’t want to be.

Strangers tell me they love my outfits, out of the blue. At times, the compliments are from teenage girls who like my Old Navy jeans, which is weird. Sometimes, the compliments are from grown women. One woman in a thrift store yesterday told me if I got tired of my striped jeans jacket, I should bring it to her. I dress like a Raggedy Andy doll, which makes those interactions a little off-kilter, but if they share my taste, that’s nice.

My favorite, the other day, was walking past a couple of fifty-ish guys hanging out against a building wall, and one of them said, “Hey mama,” to me, with appreciation. It was just charming. They were just enjoying my existence. I enjoyed their existence right back, but I wasn’t going to talk to them and they wouldn’t want me to. They were just paying attention.