One Hundred

“Do you know,” I say, “that this is your one-hundredth birthday?”

“My what?” Stella crows, her white eyebrows furrowed, the translucent blue-green-pearl colored skin of her forehead puckered into wrinkles.

“You’re one hundred today,” I friendly-shout.

“I can’t hear you,” Stella says, nose wrinkled, its drooping tip unhappy with me, “do you know, though,” her thin lips turn upward, lifting the white hairs on her upper lip, “it’s my birthday today.”