In Your Forty Paces

So I shuffle in by myself, covering about a foot of carpet for every three steps.
There you are.
Young. Middle Eastern. Male. Smart white lab coat. Daytime TV soap looks. The whole bit.
You’re exiting the building; I’m heading through three bowling alleys of sliding glass doors.
You’re watching me.
And yes, unless you can teletransport through glass, we’re going to have to pass each other at some point.
Um, you’re still looking at me.
Okay, fine. It’s not like there’s much besides poop-brown carpet to look at anyway.
Sorry, but I’m concentrating on not hitting the glass doors.
I look back up and— what is your deal?!
You’re smiling, huh?
So I travel like a sloth. If it’s that amusing, you could get me a wheelchair.
Fine, I’m not a grouch. I can squelch pain, hobble and smile at the same time and I’ll prove it to you.
Look at that, we both deicide to be polite and pleasant and exchange hellos at the same time. Wouldn’t Miss Manners be gratified.
You stride past, and I shuffle on.
Now here’s the question: Was that all because you were checking me out, or because you were mentally diagnosing on the fly?