Let’s Not Address This

I’m nineteen and I’m walking through the city when I notice a booth in front of a stationery store where children can draw on postcards and then send them. The stamp is paid for by the store. I love postcards and the booth is almost empty so I figure, what the heck, I’ll give it a try.

Me: “Hi! Could I colour a postcard, as well?”

The lady running the booth smiles broadly.

Lady: “Sure, sweetie! Here’s the card; here are your crayons. You can even keep them as a gift!”

I am by no means a professional artist, but my drawing turns out pretty well. I flip over the postcard and write a message to my mom. The lady watches me do all of this.

Me: “Done!”

Lady: “Wonderful! Here’s your stamp.”

She puts the stamp on the card.

Lady: “Now, you just have to—”

She looks at me sharply, suddenly hesitant.

Lady: “Oh, um… Do you know your address already?”

Me: *Bewildered* “Uh… yes? It’s there.”

I point to the address on the card IN HER HANDS.

Lady: “Oh! Fantastic! You’re really grown up! Well, that’s all, then! Have a nice day, honey!”

I’ve always been told I look young for my age, but… I can’t help but wonder if she thought I was that young or disabled in some way. If so, she did a fantastic job of treating me just like everyone else. It still feels strange because she was watching me the whole time while I was writing.