by Alan Passman
We made our way into a place where java was served hot and black, but something felt amiss. You had your hair pulled back and away from your face. I was used to your Betty bangs, your dominatrix-like fringe, but that curtain had been pulled back to reveal the face you must see before bed as it is moistened and a light film of soap is applied and your two hands work it into a lather before rinsing and drying. The face that must be there when you step onto a treadmill to walk-jog-run a mile or two. The face that your mother has held in her hands and appraised with the eye of a jeweler admiring their own handiwork. Beautiful nonetheless but I, too, admire the difference that the absence of the dark strands does. Those luxuriant locks of yours frame your face so well and in such a distinct manner, but I can’t help but feel that I’m sitting with someone else entirely like I’m getting one over on you with another girl like I’m cheating, but I’m not.