Lower

I've always walked faster than most people. There seems little reason not to when I've some place to be.

Across the quad, toward the Arts Center, my thin jacket blows a bit in the wind, but keeps me warm enough. I open the first set of doors with a swift and deliberate motion. I pause. There, on the other side of the second glass doors, a woman in a wheelchair, pulling up to the automatic opener.

I can take the time to hold the door, at the very least. The second set of doors open with less vigor than the first, and stay propped against my planted foot.

When she sees that I'm holding the door for her, she tilts the control forward, compelling her motored chair.

She moves toward the doors I've just come through, but stops and motions toward me, as though to speak. Maybe whatever has left her in this chair also left her without voice.

I stoop to listen, and she wispers.

"Your fly is down."