JUNK FOOD

By: Wendy Wallace

I yank at the wet braid with my left hand.  I want pain to be a part of this drama.

Holding a pair of scissors in my right hand, I trap my black hair with the two long steel blades.

I close my eyes and cut.

I drop the scissors on a pile of T-shirts covering my bathroom floor.  I reach for the styling gel and dab some on the braid to tame the stray hairs.

Taking the braid, I go into my bedroom and place it on the blue fitted sheet covering my mattress. I hadn’t changed it since the night you came over.  I wanted to keep the smell of intimacy around me for as long as I could.

Note To Self:  rip it to shreds and then burn it.

I kneel by the bed and reach for a white handkerchief lying on the nightstand.

I open it up and place the braid in the middle of the square still stiff from its newness.

“Usually when a woman gives a man their hair, it’s only enough to make a paintbrush,” you had said.

“But look at all my hair,” I had protested moving your hand from my shoulder to my scalp. Your body was close enough for me to lick your nipple.  “I can give you so much more.”

You drank the last of the wine straight from the bottle, then you got up to leave.  I didn’t want to break our embrace, but I didn’t want you to think I was needy.

I risked the moment.

“Do you have to go?”