Young, fresh, unsuspecting— I was her once. Instead, now I am the subject of her pining curiosity. “When will you get married?” I empathize and recognize that my 30 to her 16 seems to be soft, ripened fruit on the verge of a good, wasteful spoil. The smile that cracks on my lips begs to grow into laughter, and I resist. I was her once. I still catch flecks of her in the corners of my eyes whenever I see love take one of its many shapes. My answer. “Single admission still gets you into the same movie, kid.” Looking in the rear view mirror, I catch that fleck and keep quiet.