I reach out my hand and he takes it, then looks at it, the hand of a twenty-something, unmarked, no age spots, no veins. Then he replaces it back where it was on my knee.
‘Why? Why would you do this?’
Hasn’t he already asked me that? ‘Because I don’t want to look old and grey and saggy. It’s not how I feel inside.’ I know I sounda bit snappy, but this is going pretty much the opposite of how I planned.
‘But there are other things to make you happy, surely. I mean, not that I think that you are – were – grey or saggy or…’ He trails off, shaking his head.
‘They’re not enough,’ I say, wondering if the ‘other things’ he’s talking about include him.
He stops shaking his head and just stares ahead with a weird, watery-eyed look. Even though I have twenty-seven-year-old thighs, I can’t keep squatting any longer so I stand up, which only serves to remind me how much I need to pee.
‘Is it permanent?’ he asks.
‘It’s more like a reset. I mean, I’ve started ageing again now, from where I am, if you see what I mean. But maybe once I start looking older I can get it again…’ I stroke my cheek, reminding myself – and him – of its softness.
‘We’re like Aragorn and Arwen, a mortal and an eternal…’ he says.
‘Who? What are you talking about?’ Not only does he look thin on top, he’s talking about people I don’t know. I’m starting to think I can do better than this.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ He looks up at me. ‘Erica, I really like you. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Well… erm… yes, I suppose so.’
‘But this isn’t a game to me. I’m too old for that. I know we’ve been messing about with all the jokes, and the cheese and…’ He trails off and picks at the bark on the tree trunk next to him. ‘The point is, the “you” I like… is the “you” I met, Erica. Therealyou. Funny, cool Erica.’
Oh sonowI’m cool.
‘Thisisthe real me! Just without the wear and tear.’ Anger is rising in my chest. ‘I’m tired of people telling me to age “gracefully”. Bloody hell, what does that even mean? And whyshould I accept something when I have the power to change it? This isn’t just about looks – it’s about refusing to be invisible.’
I should write that down, it’s really good.
Gabe doesn’t seem that impressed though and is pulling a piece of bark apart with his fingers, not looking at me. Even from where I’m standing, I can smell the mossy dampness again, mixed with Gabe’s warm, clean, Head & Shoulders scent.
‘I liked the wear and tear,’ he says.
‘Well, I didn’t.’ The anger rises again, and I grab my bag from the ground next to him, then turn and stomp back towards the town, hastened by annoyance, my youthful legs and a desperate need to pee.
I don’t look back.
