Unlike other coats I wear, it has no regular pattern or colour scheme. And yet, the more I’ve worn it, the better it has fitted. I’ve worn this coat a lot in my 28 years. Still, the more he asks, the more I feel exposed, until I’m wearing nothing but an invisible coat of shame. Can I feel my legs? How long have I used a wheelchair? How fast does it go?Īt least he didn’t ask if I can have sex this time. They’re all pretty innocuous in the scheme of things. And though I want to raise a Point of Order about how it’s really none of his bloody business, I’m not confident enough. My answer opens a whole Question Time’s worth of supplementary questions. You would be justified in asking why he thinks a question like that is okay.īut the awkward silence is too much. Here we go again, I think to myself.ĭon’t crack, I tell myself. “I was born.” I state bluntly, trying to make the point that it’s not the tragic accident he likely thinks it is. “I mean…” he replies, gesticulating at my wheelchair. “… Nothing?” I say, pretending not to know what he is asking. The tone is as casual as the rest of our conversation about the dreary winter weather.
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