It’s wrong to laugh at another person’s embarrassment. Logically, I know this. I can list all the reasons why: at some point, we all commit social gaffes, hatch churlish statements, succumb to random acts of public clumsiness (I of all people should know that), and otherwise ruffle the smooth veneer of social interaction. Not to mention the fact that every one of us is in possession of a structurally identical body that emits the same noises and odors deemed mortifying by Polite Society.

Still, despite all the bad karma it might harvest, sometimes there’s just nothing more satisfying than howling and clutching your stomach over the total humiliation of a stranger. Case in point: I’m sitting in a packed coffee shop, head buried in my laptop screen, seething over Boyfriend’s latest emotional snub. A man — though it’s hard to use that word to describe someone visibly younger than I am — marches up to the adjacent table and tosses his canvas shoulder bag into a chair. From his exaggerated movements, he seems to be seeking attention, so I give it. He’s lanky and pale, with WASPy facial symmetry right out of a Nantucket travel brochure. His hair creeps over his ears and neck in what looks like a deliberate attempt at subversion rather than a simple “I waited too long between hair cuts.” Fastened around his neck is a skinny pink tie.

Noticing my stare, he smirks, still standing, and leans against my table. With the air of importance that they must teach in Manhattan private schools, he flips open his cell phone and starts chatting with someone who’s no doubt equally as attractive in the same “I just can’t help it” way.

Announcing that he needs to “write this shit down,” my visitor reaches into his pocket. Out comes a pen, and with it a spray of change and paper slips, followed by something shiny. The object falls at my feet with a loud crinkle, grabbing my gaze with its bright blue plastic and bold white letters: an empty Trojan wrapper, covered in teeth marks.

From the silence, I can tell two things: he knows what he dropped, and he knows that I’m looking at it. Face like a raccoon staring down five lanes of traffic, he drops to his knees and palms the wrapper, ignoring the dimes and receipts. His neck, then cheeks, then forehead turn an aged Bordeaux.

The decent, polite thing to do is staring me in the face: avert my gaze, go back to work, pretend nothing happened — spare the poor kid his embarrassment and pat myself on the back for my act of mercy.

Nope, sorry. Not today. The laugh starts in my gut, then moves up to my lungs, into my trachea, and finally bursts out like a tenor’s high “C.” I clutch my sides and convulse. Other patrons at neighboring tables turn to look. Through streaming eyes, I can see my victim snap his phone shut and bolt out the front door. Still rolling in laughter, I tell myself I should feel ashamed for having inflicted pain on a seeming-innocent. But no guilt can break through the wall of giggly euphoria.

Feeling better than I have in days, I release my last chuckle and go back to work. He’ll get over it, and I’ll walk away with a good laugh under my belt and none the worse for wear – at least, until my next face-plant in the middle of Times Square.