Serious Gypsies

We are gypsies. Or it feels that way inside tents, in a city that feels a little post-apocalyptic. My friends from years ago are there, one wants to sleep next to me in my tent. We sleep deeply. I am warm and cozy next to her. Morning comes and my other friend opens the tent door. She is ten years older than she was the last time I saw her. I am still a little in love with her and care too much about what she thinks of me, of my tent and the way I keep it, about the things I say, which to me are funny, but to her seem juvenile. She is serious, I'm shocked by how serious she is.  

Older

A stranger asks me how old I am. I look at my hands to remember. You are much older than me, the stranger says. She gets close to my face and walks around and around me as though she's looking at a sculpture. I watch my face age in a mirror. My eyes sink into their sockets. The stranger laughs. None of this ruffles me. I put on a red scarf and ask the stranger to make me a cup of tea.