I am hurting all over today.

I go to get up for lunch and a sharp, excruciating pain shoots up my leg. My right foot is in agony; every time I take a step a whimper escapes my lips even though I try to keep it quiet, try to keep it in where the whimpers may turn into a nightmare when I sleep.

But it escapes my mouth anyway, wanting to share its sound with others. A co-worker stops me and asks if I’m alright.

“I’m fine.” I lie.

“Are you having trouble limping?” she asks.

“Yes, but it’s no biggie.” I say. “I’m fine.”

“You should think of getting better shoes.” she tells me. “That might help.”

I look down at my nice black dress shoes with their special soles that provide extra comfort, their jell insole that cushions my foot. “Yeah,” I reply lamely. “That would help.”

“At least you’re not handicapped,” she says. “My sister has MS and she’s always bitching and moaning about how much pain she’s in. She can get a little annoying.”

I grimace. She sees my face and looks concerned.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asks. I think of what she said and how it revealed exactly who she is.

“No,” I say. “You didn’t say anything wrong at all.”

I limp away down the hallway, feeling her eyes drill into the back of my head.