The wheels twist when I hoist the rollator out of the trunk. I steer over cracked sidewalks and head toward the restroom. Where there’s an accessibility sign. But no button. The wheels twist as I open the door with one hand. Twist my body to push through with my butt. I steer over mosaic tile to the accessibility stall. Where some student holes up. Some student who doesn’t need the handrails. I twist my body to sit down on my rollator. I wait until she finishes. All the other stalls remain empty. I twist and turn to see the stalls are empty. Except the one I need. I want her to feel guilty. I want her to know my twisted body could be hers someday. Maybe someday soon. The wheels twist and I push through the stall doors. Hold onto the handrails with both arms and lower myself. No toilet paper.

Barbara Krasner (she/her) is a New Jersey-based writer whose work about chronic illness and disability has appeared in FLARE Magazine, Calendula Review, Argyle Literary Magazine, Journal of Expressive Writing, Laurel Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and elsewhere.

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