Trichoptilosis

“Split-ends? Yeah, I know what those are.” I continued to try to pick at the knot in my hair. He looks at me with a soft smile, emphasized by his parenthese dimples. I grin warmly. Split-ends. He proudly pulses my hand as he sits on the round cement statue, effaced to be a basketball. His back is turned to the city, to the enormous chalk cloud being thrown by number 23. He tilts his head down as goosebumps form on his neck. The noise of the city envelops me. The people scrambling around like ants enthrall him. I reach up and clutch his cold cheek; his smile grows.






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