At the push of a button, two doors swing open.
Though I need only one, I appreciate the extra space.
She is standing there, wanting me to look at her.
I do, I see her indicate that she is going to step to the side.
She is going to go out the other set of doors, not the one in front of her.
I begin to say, "There's plenty of room."
She keeps staring at me, keeps willing me to see her.
Wanting me to watch her step aside, make room for me.
But I don't need that room, there's lots and lots of space.
It seems that she's waiting for something, her foot taps.
Her eyes burn as the look at me, I see need there.
I see craving, an addict needing a fix.
Moving through the door, the door with plenty of space.
She continues to wait, her hand indicates a message
I AM GOING THROUGH THE OTHER DOOR, THANK ME.
I am disabled, I am often expected to give thanks for help I don't need.
I don't want to say thank you, I'm not miserly with praise.
But this is silly, she is inconveniencing herself for no purpose.
There is lots and lots of space, but not now.
She moves in front of me, now my way is truly blocked.
I look at her questioningly, we've yet to speak a word.
It's a military ballet, I move and she counters.
Now she steps out of my way, now I am compelled.
"Thank you," I said unwillingly and with a bit of resentment.
And I see it, really see it.
The gratitude of the disabled, that's like a bump of crack.
It stabilises the sense of superiority, and makes giving getting.
The gratitude of the lesser, that's an addiction.
She had her fix, my thank you took away the fire in her eyes.
And left it burning, deep and hot in my heart.