"I'm so tired of sitting on that damn plane, I want to scream. I need to walk."
I imagined him––a six-footer––folded into those tiny seats. "Well, hell. I'll ride in the chair and you can push me," I said. I plopped myself down and set the backpack in my lap, twisting around so we could gossip while we made our way to baggage claim. He parked me off to the side of the carousel, and then waded into the mob to wrangle his duffel bag.
A man emerged from the crowd heading toward me. I opened my mouth to say hello. At the last second, he averted his gaze and hurried past. A woman approached. I smiled up at her. "Hi," I said. She seemed to locate my voice; her head bent in my direction, but just as our gazes were about to intersect, she turned away. One after another, their gazes bounced off the top of my head like basketballs hitting the rim.
"The weirdest thing just happened," I said to Wayne. "Your wheelchair made me invisible."
"Yeah," he said. "Welcome to my world."