The pressure dropped. The thunderheads rolled in and buckled against the city’s height, then cushioned there, they threatened. Nothing less than dangerous.

“I can’t wait to get outta the city,” you said.

It seemed everything was rusting.

“Give me a haircut,” you said.

The scissors were dull. Lightning flashed at the windows.

The ivy crept near. That red chair, scraping, scraping, until you could see just right in the china cabinet’s mirror (I didn’t want you to see what I was doing).  Thunder. The humidity and the roughly cut hairs made my nose itch. So much damn DAX in your hair, my fingers were shining. Smoothed the hair between my forefinger and middle finger, snip, snip. Here, there. No plan.

You complained: “Too long here.”

I always admitted I didn’t know what I was doing.

You liked it, after all. You preened. The storm had already ended.

After you had driven across the bridge toward the city, I realized you were gone. I dug a wad of your hair from the bathroom garbage. Rubbed it between my fingers. It produced no effect. I smelled it. Nothing. For a second I thought about stuffing it in my pocket. Instead, I stared at it until it was only hair, then I buried it in the trash can among the tissues and cardboard rolls, deep down, underneath everything.