It was always easier on Thursdays. For some reason the 5.34 was less packed. He could squeeze the wheelchair on without too many angry glances.
Only four weeks left now and it’d all be over. He’d been lucky to have access to a wheelchair throughout. It would’ve been a pain to find one that he could use for such a long time.
He knocks it as he navigates the corner.
Metal scrapes briefly against brick.
The train station.
It’s more crowded than he thought.
He knocks it against a shin.
A pointed cough.
A stare he feels but doesn’t see.
Not many more sessions now.
Lucy has promised to show him the piece once it’s complete. And last week she suggested that she’d pay him a litle extra for the trouble.
“I feel a bit bad about your fall last week,” she said. “I thought the wheels were stable. I know posing in a wheelchair’s probably difficult, but I promise you the picture’s worth it. I might even ask you to pose again soon.”
James hopes not. She doesn’t pay any more per hour than a regular life modeling class.