by L. F. Roth
strawberry and lime cider
I happened
to find myself at the station this morning, where I overheard a remark that made
me prick up my ears.
‘It’s her birthday today.’
The words came from a woman carrying a bag that spelled
fashion. I made out the word Flip K.
‘It is?’ The person beside her, older by some years, slowed
down. Her canvas tote bag was somewhat the worse for wear.
‘Sixty-five, they tell me.’
Her companion shook her head.
‘More than that, I would have thought. She must be well into
her eighties.’
But the other disagreed.
‘Oh, no. Have you looked at her eyes? They are the eyes of
an eighteen-year-old.’
‘True enough.’
‘And the way she moves. Her shoulders. Her
hips.’
‘Like a young girl.’
‘Exactly.’
They proceeded past me, but out of curiosity I followed
them.
‘You have to look beyond the surface, though,’ said the one
with the canvas bag. ‘Her poise. The aura that surrounds her. There is wisdom.
She’s no sixty-year-old.’
The one with the bag marked Flip K clearly took offence. She
swung it around as she boarded the train, almost hitting her fellow traveller. I stepped back to avoid being caught by it, but as they disappeared,
I thought I heard a name. It was yours, of course.
Happy
birthday!
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