“How old are you?” she asks. “I’m curious.” “Fifty-six seasons.” Suh-mer sputters. “You what?” “Our kind is very long-lived.” “God, I guess so. You don’t look like a silver fox to me.” She leans in and tweaks a few strands of my hair. “No grays yet.” I smile. “I will not become gray for another fifty seasons I imagine.”
