Before the mirror, clad only in a towel, she brushes her hair with sure, decisive strokes, each one seemingly calculated to an end I can't quite fathom, torquing the brush with each pass. There's a rhythm to the movement, and the sound of those long red strands unparting crackles like static. My own hair is horribly disordered from the sins of the our wine-dark night as I watch from the edge of the bed, head ablaze, tracing her outline with my eyes. And when she catches my darkened eyes in the mirror and turns to ask What's wrong?, I tell her, Nothing, just watching. I don't tell her how disappointed I am that she isn't you.