We decided to take the trolley to and from anywhere we had to go, and leave the car where it was. I informed Derek that I would not be going with him to get the car. I would wait down on the street for him. I kept reminding him of that, telling him several times during the day that I did not want, under any circumstances, to ride in the elevator again. He didn’t say anything, in that vague kind of not saying anything way when you are not sure if it means “ya ok, no prob, you can wait for me” or “ya ok, no prob, you keep talking and believe whatever you want but you are coming with me and that’s that no need for me to discuss it with you further.” Derek is like that, he keeps his cards close to his chest.
Meanwhile, we trollied our little hearts out. All these young people kept standing up and offering us their seats, the ones that say they are reserved for the handicapped, mothers with small children or the elderly. Derek was quite put out that they were offering him a seat. I am not sure what he sees when he looks in the mirror. Maybe he thought that he had put on some weight around the middle and they thought he might be pregnant.
We ended up jumping off in the downtown area and as Derek grabbed my hand so we could run and catch the walk light up ahead, I managed to DEEEEEPLY massage my forehead with a metal sign. I started sobbing like a kid and he was hugging me, not so much to comfort me as it was to muffle the sounds of my wailing. I had to hit him so he would let go and I could breathe. He set me down on a bench seat and made me drink some water (his cure for everything) and wrapped my head with something – I suspect it was one of his tube socks. I had a goose egg. I was not feeling good. What kind of an idiot walks into a street sign? Not a young person, let me tell you. It had to be an taller, old person. The kind of person who just bought a caravan. I was starting to see a trend here and I didn’t like it. Continue reading