A Girl Combs Her Hair

slipped over her head. The comb glides through the luster, and stops short. She thinks of fingers. Hands gripping the small of her back. She leans against the wall. He could have brought flowers. The girl wants to sit for a while on the fire escape: to listen to the water draining the open fire hydrant and cooling the street and children— to figure out the look he gave when she turned and small hairs scattered across the pillow. But already