Blood-damp Hair

She walked him to the edge of the ocean and made him kneel. The water barely reached them to kiss their knees. She brought his hands up to his hair and helped him ring out the blood that contained memories of her. Of the first time she told him she loved him, of the first nice thing he said to her, of the private thoughts of each other. He wrung it out until he didn’t remember why anymore and by that time she had already started to take over. She did so until his hair was dry, frizzing under her sweaty palms. She smiled at him, a kind stranger, and told him it was all done. His unrecognizing eyes believed her, so he stood up and walked away to find his shoes. She didn’t watch him leave.

She started to wring out her own hair, but not until it was dry. She wrung out her questions of wondering if he had ever truly loved her, if he had ever truly cared about her like he said he did. She wrung it out until her main feeling was relief when she felt her shoulders fall and her jaw relax. She left it blood damp, left only with a vague feeling of love lost.

The sand stuck to her knees as she walked back to her own shoes, waiting to be brushed off before heading home.