“Age is our friend,” he toyed, winning their annoyance. A council of women switched off from the listening side of the conversation, and began spewing their individual responses to the offensive keyword, barreling over one another to regale their bitter memoirs and sour predictions.
He sighed, letting this one go, being intelligent enough to recognise a lost cause, and glanced longingly at his watch. He enjoyed this, and held onto the moment. ‘Well, age is my friend,’ he thought to himself, and stroked his facial hair, appreciating each fresh sprout like a newly blossoming rose, knowing that, because he was a man, he would fare easier than these people hell-bent on misery.
“He’s not even listening!” one of them cackled, and the group broke into that dirty kind of laughter that only occurs in response to things that are not funny, and are not jokes. He smirked politely in response, returning from his daydream, from his sideburns, and cut his mental ties with each one of them as easily as he had lost helium balloons from restaurants as a child.
They hadn’t even let him alone for enough seconds that it would have taken to fully absorb the waitress, a much more pleasant presence, one who probably didn’t give a damn about age.
He hoped his friends would hurry up and die soon.