Half a pace ahead, one shoulder hunched, she seems to be wheezing, but she is leading him out the heavy door, his arm looped with hers, a big blind man in sunglasses, gray-bearded, scruffy in a Viking t.
In the parking lot, he stops. An SUV is inching towards them. They have come out from the shade into bright sunlight. He tilts his head toward where he feels the sun on his face. The car has stopped. She – wife, sister, friend – leans into him but does not move. She looks straight ahead.
He rests this way, head uplifted, face to the sun for 7 or 8 beats. When he’s ready, she feels it and steps forward. Not once does she turn to look at the car. Only when they have passed into the next row of parked cars, does the SUV roll forward, slowly.
