He leans forward, takes her hand, and kisses her lightly on the cheek, right smack dab in the middle of that birthmark.
She’s used to people looking at her and in a flash looking somewhere else, as though they’d be happier if she didn’t exist at all. She gets around feeling herself to be a small patch of something barely visible in the world, safer when it’s quietly encased inside several dark walls with only a window to the sky. After all, everyone gets to look at the sky, don’t they? And here is this man calling for help with his balloons as though she is as normal as everyone else, not someone with a condition you can find on the internet, a grotesquerie, an ogress, and those other words she can find in her paperback books, an object of dreadful pity, someone whose pride is in her isolation.