Onomatopoeia.

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.

Murky.

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.