“I love women from your country—the color of their eyes—so beautiful!” The man serving me Sheesh Kebab at the food truck confessed.
“Thank you!” I replied, surprised by his friendly demeanor.
“How old are you?” He asked, with a smile.
“Why?” I replied with a bigger smile. Was this a trick to get me to buy another roll?
“You 21?” He asked again.
“NO—I am much older!” I replied, now red in the cheek.
“Can’t be. You look like little girl.”
“Wow! I am shocked,” he said.
“You are very flattering. But, it’s not me. I get my looks from my mother. And yes, maybe I look like a little girl but my mother is a beautiful woman.”
“Where is your mother?” he asked.
“Back home, far away,” I replied.
“Does she visit you?”
“Yes, sometimes but—”
“She is 57!”
“Good. I am 50. Next time she come here, bring her along.”