jeffrey

“Sorry,” he said. I moved my ski poles out of the way. This ski lift is slow.

“No worries,” I said.

“You sound funny. Are you American?”

“I’m from Chicago. Do you know where that is?”

“No, but I’ve been to America. My dad took me to Tennessee last year to see Elvis and my Uncle.”

“Cool. Did you have fun?”

“Yea, but we won’t go back this year because my Uncle is dead.”

“That’s… horrible.”

“…”

“So what’s your name?”

“Jeffrey. What’s yours?”

“Fergus. But people call me fungus.”

“Why do they call you fungus?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just a nickname.”

“Oh. Do you like that nickname?”

“Yea, I don’t mind it. I think it’s funny. Do you have a nickname?”

“Some people call me fingers.”

“Fingers? That’s weird.”

“I guess it’s a little weird.”

“…”

“How old are you,” he asked me.

“How old are you,” I asked him.

“Guess,” he said.

“10?”

“No.”

“5?”

“Nope.”

“8?”

“Nu-uh!” He laughed.

“6?”

“11?”

“9?”

“Yes!”

“Well. Can you tell I’m bad at guessing ages? So how old do you think I am,” I asked.

“26?”

Little bastard. But I don’t think I’ll forget him.

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