A conversation at the coffee shop

“How old are you?”, he asks as he smiles at me from behind the bar, “coffee?”, his immediate next question. He’s flirting with me.
“46”, I answer, and “yes please, black, Americano.”
“You don’t look 46 at all!”
“Thank you”, and I pull up my colourful socks, comfortable in my track pants and sneakers, tie my hair in a bun and smile back at him.
“I am 26”, he goes.
Behind the noise of the coffee machine, I can still almost hear him thinking. I wait for what it is he will say next.
“You’re older than my mother”, another smile as he brings me my coffee.
“Oh…”, this time I am the one processing. I take my coffee, hop on my bicycle and leave.
Smiling and not sure what to make of that last comment.