I have the metro train rules memorized, thanks to the recording that plays on a loop during my one-hour commutes to and from work. One seat per rider, no food or drink (like that one could ever be enforced), no smoking, and no loud music. One day I board the train at Union Station for my ride home, along with a whole group of tired workers like me. We stand or sit and stare at our phones or other devices. I’m trying to read a book on my tablet, but I can’t quite concentrate on the words because a man five rows behind me is singing loudly, as if he is one of the Supremes backing up Diana Ross. I’m a little put off because I can’t concentrate on my book with this singing. Doesn’t he know the rules by heart like me?

At the next stop, another man boards the train, sitting across the aisle from me. He quickly notices the singer and his song, and he turns around and says to the singer , “Hey! Shut up!” I’m struck by the violence in his words, and I see my own feelings accentuated in them. The irritated rider gets off at the next stop, but the singing continues.

I’m confronted with the violence and irritation of my own feelings about this disruption. As a dedicated rule-follower, the singing is a clear violation of train policy, in my opinion. I’m aware, though, that the singer might need to sing right then. He might need that song to help him deal with life. In a world of mass shootings and chronic stress, there are certainly other behaviors with far worse consequences that the singer could choose. “Sing, sing a song,” the Carpenters’ song goes. “Let the world sing along. Sing of love there could be. Sing for you and for me.”

Either the singer didn’t hear the man or he doesn’t care. Or maybe he just needs to sing to cope. I relax, close my tablet, look out the window, and listen. He might need the comfort of a song right now. Maybe I do, too.