It’s my birthday today he said. Scissors in hand, perfect hair, tattoos covering most of one arm, a disarming smile and strong Spanish accented English.
Happy birthday, I replied.
25. That feels so old, he added.
Over twice his age I calculated.
He waved the scissors and smiled again.
I looked at the grey hairs on the floor around me and scattered across the gown they always make you wear and then commiserated with him on the passing of time.
25. So old. Indeed. Poor Davide.