I could tell you she had long, dark hair.
But you wouldn’t know.
You didn’t see her hair swooshing across her shoulders when she glanced at a noisy printer to the left.
And even that (even that!) cannot describe her. Everything I say ends up in a narcissistic jumble.
But maybe you can see it. The way it swooshed. And swooshed again.
I wanted it to swoosh a third time, just for me. I wanted every single strand of that hair to notice me and want me.
Her hair did not swoosh a third time.