Gail picks me up after work on Mondays. It is a part of her job to take me to the store to buy my food for the week. It is just fruit and leaves, and the store is not far from my home, but I could not carry it all back by myself. I think I could ride a small bicycle, but Gail said she does not like the idea. She thinks it would not be safe. Things can be too safe. I would still like to try. It has been almost a year.
Gail always asks me about my day, but one day is like another, just different books to shelve. Only my feelings make a difference, and I do not know if I can talk about them, even if I knew how. But Gail is quiet tonight. Though this change is welcome, I feel it is not good. We are at a red traffic light when she says, "I read your blog."
"Oh," is all I can say back.
"Your supervisor thought I should see it."
"Oh."
"You could have told me." Her lips did not quite meet when she spoke the last word.
"But I did not want you to know."
At this, a sound broke from her that startled me. A horn honked, because the light was now green, and she stepped hard on the floor and the car jumped across the street. She was crying.
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