Graying
He had started praying, exposing his side to that glass-breaking hammer which, seen out of the corner of his eye, seemed so much like a crucifix.
Next to it, the window was transmitting images from the entire plain, without commercial breaks apart from the few billboards along the way.
It had been a tough day, he had had to carry out his job as a messenger with an extra weight on his shoulders, a bulky package that weighed on his stomach.
He knew that feeling, after all the times he had lost his temper with her, with friends or with his parents in a remote era: his vision became blurred, saliva began to fill his mouth and the nervous and uneven breathing began to cause a stiffening of his neck. Soon the usual migraine would start, and then he really wouldn't be able to see, while the pain would throb and push all evening until he fell asleep, more out of boredom than out of fatigue.
He looked at the landscape, the ears of corn in the fields were still green but under the sun the first yellow streaks were starting to appear.
He ran his hand through his hair, thinking about how even among his raven hair some white strands were starting to sprout.
He didn't mind too much, after all aging was normal and dyeing would have been much worse than accepting a graying future.