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Show 11 Karen is holding the chair, standing behind it, braking it with her legs against my awkward descent into it. I am sorry for the hand grips at the back of my chair because I now wish to appear independent of all help. Other than the chair itself, of course. My sole and classic black accommodation. We are entering through the heavy doors into the mall - Karen has shouldered through them - and I am now acutely aware of so many faces and their quick stare. That sudden, almost instinctive looking, then the forced return to the quotidian, abmpt, as if chastened from within, mothers' voices from distant pasts, telling the gazer that it is not polite to stare. Too late. I am diminished somehow by each quick stare. Karen is leaning over to whisper into my ear. "Smile," she is saying. "Let's give them something to look at." I smile obediently at her comment then laugh at my smiling at her comment. She has suddenly taken the hand grips in spite of my protests and is pushing me quickly through masses of waistlines. A sharp breeze is coming onto my face as I hear the click-clacking of her heels accelerating their staccato rhythms on the tiles. She must be running now and belts and shirt buttons and the occasional child's eyes meet my gaze as we rush through the hallway past watch shops, yogurt stands and fashion stores. I am giddy, no longer with the fear of being stared |
