I was on the bus, looking busy and important in my blue pinstripes and officious sweater. There was a lady, with the most mossy eyes, talking a mile a minute to her male friend. Both had wrinkles and the stamps of time all over their faces and well moisturized hands. The gentleman had the cutest wrinkles that danced everytime he laughed at something he said, or managed to get a word in.
I was wondering how you would look when you were, say 60. A beard perhaps, rough brown skin from all your travels, you would also smoke a cigar because you spent 12 months and 22 days in the Altay mountains looking for a ring that belonged to the third uncle of the gal you fell in love with, whose last name was Sergeyevria von Diderits and camping in the valleys needed you to keep warm (with nicotine) and still that awesome twinkle in your eyes as you entertained my million thoughts with the correct commas, and interjections of your own. I would probably be that gal, whose hair was totally white, who had lived on to avoid the draft of the cold, cold world, while having travelled all over as well, but writing stories now, and teaching music at the local school, and knowing where her hat and gloves were, for once.