Was he calculating a plan while clipping my hair?
He lingered over every move, swirled strands
with the tip of his hand. Softly he said: I’m going to get
this just right for you. Customers left one by one.
Change counted, cash registers closed. The salon emptied.
Heels clicked on concrete as customers hurried home.
Stylists tidied stations, departed. Minutes, heavy,
I wondered — when will he finish?
Skyscrapers cast shadows on sidewalks, buses barreled
down the street. He bolted the salon door, smiling.
It’s my turn to close today. Darkness penetrated
the room. He lowered me between chairs, lowered
my jeans. Brought me to my knees.
Then he did what he pleased.
Photo by Andrii Leonov on Unsplash
