Aged Up To This Day

She was really old. Like, insanely incredibly old. The type of old that makes you uncomfortable to be anywhere near it. Forget the smell. All old people smell. This woman, this woman--she was so close to death that you could see it on her. And feel it. Death vibrates.
Every hour on the hour she would reach out one of her hands towards me, usually the left, leaving the right to clutch her bedspread, painfully knobby joints terse and full of emotion. Her hands were sharply veined and transparent. Insect wings. I feigned a sneeze and jerked away every time.
I couldn't stay focused on her words. Over time her voice had worn around the edges like everything else in the room, leaving it jagged and unstable. This instability was impossible for my ears to tolerate. I tried to listen, I really did--I was so terrified of her that I felt that I owed her that courtesy. But I just couldn't. My mind would wander.
Naturally my first thoughts would lean towards my own aging, a topic that had long perplexed me. It creeped upwards without me, leaving me to rely on the calendar to track the years. I never felt aged, even now, far past my midlife crisis. Always just the same me. To this day I'm still not sure if that's a good thing.

Why Would I Imagine Such a Thing?

Fifteen minutes ago we locked eyes three times. Neither of us smiled. I'm not sure what you're excuse is, but I'm not in a smiling mood. It is possible that you were just looking at me because I was looking at you. That may have made you uncomfortable and uncomfortable people don't smile. The thing is, though, that I smile when I'm uncomfortable, and aren't we two similar people? So why weren't you smiling?
I'm beginning to feel that you had a plot in mind because I saw your car. Just for the record, the locked eyes were piece of evidence #1, and this is #2. But, yeah, I saw your car leaving the parking lot. Low to the ground like it was sneaking, rusted around the edges like your shower (I imagine). It was also distinctly boxy and blue, which makes me want to call it the BB-Car, or BBar for short (that actually may cause confusion because I do not plan on going bar hopping with you). It is the distinctiveness of this vehicle that adds meat to piece of evidence #2.
Just now--very, very recently--I saw your car again. You found me. Did you follow me here? It's lucky for you that I'm sitting on this stoop, right out in the open. If I were a functioning adult I would be inside with the air conditioner and some stock quotes. But I'm not. And I doubt you are because your car is a total piece. It's okay, though, because if we were those people you would not be sneaking glances at me through your driver's side window.
In your defense, that might not have even been you. This could just be my imagination running circles around my dappled rationality. However, in your prosecution, why would I imagine such a thing?