The city finally edged into darkness. Lights burned in the high towers of commerce as cleaning crews swept through, or ambitious executives toiled after-hours in the hope of promotion and bigger offices. I took the lock of Sondra’s hair from the breast pocket of my jacket and held it in the closed palm of one hand. How light it was, lighter than any bird. I realized how worried she must have been, sick to her heart about the cocaine affair, wanting to tell me and not knowing how, accusing herself for her own act of folly, ashamed and despising herself for keeping a secret from me. I wondered if I’d failed to detect little signs of stress in her, if I’d overlooked any peculiarities of behavior. I couldn’t think of any giveaway tics, odd mannerisms, prolonged gloomy silences that hinted at things hidden. I guessed if I looked back long and hard enough I’d encounter some small instance of unusual behavior: but my brain was lead, and I could only think of where I was headed and what I’d do when I got there – and how time was blowing away like filaments of some very fragile plant.
