there are four elevators but two are broken, and it is rush hour so there are more people waiting than i can count on my hands and feet. i hear mumbling that there are no stairs, and my fingernails carve into my palm how much more patience i apparently have than the non-disabled. the one on the left finally arrives and everyone looks to me wondering what right i have to enter this space they’ve claimed for their feet but not my wheels as i barrel my way through. inside, packed like the subway car soon to be entered, someone says: it’s ridiculous they have us all waiting around for elevators. there should be stairs too.

i am trying not to feel responsible. even though they could have used the stairs across the street, i feel the beginnings of an apology curling around my tongue. that my equality is their inconvenience.

instead, i swallow myself whole and say: it must be nice to be used to options.

no one moves. no one looks me in the eye. the elevator carries us underneath second avenue slowly, and the only thing i can hear is the creaking of an old, overworked machine because now everyone is silent.