His stiff gait is not an affectation, but it feels like it is because he used to climb trees with a chainsaw, making art everyone refused to see as art, while his wife screamed that he was doing it wrong, and their children heard.
Her stiff gait is not an affectation, but it is a reminder of the day her fast and prolific and correct brain said “stop” for a moment, pausing in violent rebellion.
My stiff gait is not an affectation, either, but some days it is, when I strain to pull in, be smaller, put less of me in the world, hunched and slow. Too stiff to disappear.