A Question of Age
For years, I used to pretend I was younger than I was. I looked younger and therefore I could get away with it. I wouldn’t lie, I just wouldn’t correct people if they suggested a lower number of years
“real age, as I came to see from the genuine pieces that passed through my hands, was variable, crooked, capricious, singing here and sullen there, warm asymmetrical streaks on a rosewood cabinet from where a slant of sun had struck it while the other side was as dark as the day it was cut.”
For years, I used to pretend I was …
