Hey Babe, What's Your Sign?

It's February and I'm walking in a park in Michigan. Trudging is a better word. The path is treacherous. The packed snow must be two feet deep, uneven with lacerations from cross country skis, and covered with a thick layer of ice. My dog tugs on the leash, I know any minute I'm going to slip. This is not fun. I pray I make it back to my car without breaking any bones.

A dark figure approaches in the distance. It's a man. He seems to be struggling even more than I am, and flings himself onto a bench.

"Tough walking," I say.
"You're not kidding," he says, "Especially since I'm an amputee."
Conversation screeches to a halt.
"Uh, yes," I finally say, "I bet that makes it even tougher."
"Yep," he says, "My ankle doesn't bend."
"Darn," I reply.
"See?" He hikes up his pant leg to reveal a leg made of steel rods with a shoe screwed into the bottom.

He whacks the shoe a few times with his knuckles, sure enough, the ankle doesn't bend. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic but this is way more than I ever want to know about this guy.

I edge away. "Enjoy your walk," I say, and beat feet.

I bumped into him again recently, same thing. He announced he was an amputee, showed me his prosthesis and gave me the ankle demo. I have an uneasy sense he's trying to pick me up. He really needs to work on his opening line.