Same scar.

(Photo: Erin Veness)

   Grey jacket, ruddy skin, uneven bristles littering each cheek. Salt and pepper, chalk and cheese.
   ''ey, we’ve got the same scar, you and me,' is his opening line.

   I sit back and look up. 'Have we?' I ask politely.
   'Yah, look.' He pulls back his knitted beanie (also grey) and traces a visible line, white and clear, cutting through the deep pink from his forehead down in front of his ear. The opposite side to mine, but shockingly similar. It just doesn’t go back quite as far. It’s that little bit quieter. 'How’d you get yours, then?'
   I smile, feeling the warmth mixed with desperate curiosity in his words. 'Brain surgery. You?'
   'Ah, fair, whoa. Got mine from an accident. Smashed me head in,' he grins a little lopsidedly, then raises a hand.
   'You have a great life won’t you – god bless ya,' and he walks away, touching his lips with his dry fingers and blowing me a kiss. 
   I automatically return it. Because I’ve made a friend, in what must be the strangest but also most intimate way. 


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