It makes for a convenient distraction. If not for the irritating hesitation displayed by the man as they trundle along to the parking lot, Ralston might find himself inclined to flick a few backward glances of his own back toward the ugly building they've just left.
(A community college. What an absurd invention. He has decided this is the thing that annoys him; and that the tight sensation in his belly is annoyance and not a nauseating ember of fear sparked by the trajectory of the doctor's lecture.)
But happily, he can avoid all that self reflection in favor of critically staring back at this biddable oaf whenever the man happens to check to make sure he's following. Let's not acknowledge his pace, which is slow, or the fact that when they reach the car Ralston makes to use his spare hand to feel around to the passenger side, leaning on the car rather than the stick which remains stubbornly tucked under his arm.
The lack of a second set of doors on the car warrants a withering look—gods below, the indignity of riding on the driver's bench—but he clambers into the passenger seat with a tight lipped resignation.
Once the door has come thumping shut after him, and with the cane wrangled at such an angle as to impose a firm barrier between the two of them—(unecessary; the impala's expansive front seat could seat two grown men, three grown women, and a whole block's worth of diseased Fallow Street orphans if necessary)—the man with the dark eyes sticks his hand expectantly out to receive the little writing book.
no subject
(A community college. What an absurd invention. He has decided this is the thing that annoys him; and that the tight sensation in his belly is annoyance and not a nauseating ember of fear sparked by the trajectory of the doctor's lecture.)
But happily, he can avoid all that self reflection in favor of critically staring back at this biddable oaf whenever the man happens to check to make sure he's following. Let's not acknowledge his pace, which is slow, or the fact that when they reach the car Ralston makes to use his spare hand to feel around to the passenger side, leaning on the car rather than the stick which remains stubbornly tucked under his arm.
The lack of a second set of doors on the car warrants a withering look—gods below, the indignity of riding on the driver's bench—but he clambers into the passenger seat with a tight lipped resignation.
Once the door has come thumping shut after him, and with the cane wrangled at such an angle as to impose a firm barrier between the two of them—(unecessary; the impala's expansive front seat could seat two grown men, three grown women, and a whole block's worth of diseased Fallow Street orphans if necessary)—the man with the dark eyes sticks his hand expectantly out to receive the little writing book.