They stare at me

I went to the shop. Bought a packet of sweets, an energy drink, 10 cigarettes. They stare at me. Stare at me as I browse the shelves, stare into my face as I go to the till, ask for 'ten Richmond kingsize, please,' stare as I give my money, as I shove the change back into my wallet.
They don't stare at her. The bulimic. Skinny, bones scraping bones under shapeless black clothes as she grabs three packets of Malteasers. Hair hiding her face as she grasp her stack of foods. Fat, sugar, carbs, topped with a pack of fat-free rice cakes. Obvious. But no. She goes to the self-service checkout after her long minutes spent staring, grabbing, at the confectionary aisle. They don't even stare at the chocolate bars, sweet packets, sticking so obviously out of her coat pockets. Part of her wants to be caught, to be pulled up by some security guard, stopped before she can cram each stolen calorie into her mouth. But no.

Instead they stare at me. Does my face look so alien? Is there something broken, obvious, in my eyes? Is it because I'm pale, breathless from the walk, the walk which passes so many other people, staring, shouting? Why do they look at m like that?