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He sat, rested his elbows on the steel table and his chin on both palms. He looked like a blue flower bud resting on its comforting sepals. He was indeed in sorrow and a sensitive painter could paint the sadness in a very few strokes of his palette. Good thing he had company--a second-hand book adopted from a colleague.
It was a usual after-work day. He used to sit there and read one of his fave books till 10 p.m. then goes home when the stores start closing. But the usual day turned unforgettable and it started with a tap on his left shoulder.
"You alone?" the question was surprising.
"With my book." the answer was unfriendly.
The stranger sat though not offered.
He didn't look the stranger in the eyes. He didn't care. He didn't own the chair anyway.
He went on reading. As his eyes swerved the pages he could sense the stranger's eyes glued on him. The nascent irritation were starting to grow, but he thought it would be wise to hold his temper, one that would trigger bludgeoning a pretty face. He inhaled and focused on a new chapter of James Patterson's The Jester.
"You are so serious. I bet you look older than your age" the stranger smilingly said as the fingers tapping the table in a sort of rhythm.
He's used to be mistaken for a dead serious, but the comment on his age was the very first. He smiled and said "i know i look older than my age. It's my business no one else's."
"Now you're talking. Let me guess how old you are."
"Sure you can guess" he dared.
"Twenty-three."
"First attempt failed."
"Twenty-two."
"So is the second."
"Then it's twenty-three."
"Higher."
"Alright. I am sure it's twenty-five."
He smiled, picked his backpack and said, "You are not as wise as i expected. I was born in 1981. Now do the math."
Then he left.
