We were talking, in a civilised way,
in the kitchen, her kitchen, her flat.
We were talking about the family things
which still bound us together;
about insurance or our daughter’s wedding.
I forget the detail, remember the moment
We were talking in an adult way
as we had since the separation,
but still invisible threads linked the
two of us – tensions, snags, yes, but threads.
“Your hair’s getting long” she said.
“And thin on top” I added, ruefully.
“No matter” she answered, walking
to the cupboard, opening the drawer,
taking out towel, scissors, comb, almost
absent-mindedly. I sat quite still. I think
I closed my eyes. I breathed more quickly
in anticipation, aware of heat rising in my neck.
I waited for her touch. Her competent warm
fingers tucked the towel into my collar
then ran briskly over my hair, up and over.
“Yes, quite long”, she said again.
Then the familiar comfort of clip and
smooth, cut and comb, touch and tug.
Lifting my hair between her fingers,
she moved my head, turning my chin
like a sculptress objectively viewing her work.
Almost as it used to be. Almost. I could have
put my arms around her waist or a hand
on her thigh – but I didn’t move.
Feigning ease, I talked – of what I scarcely
recall. I remember the talking, the snipping,
lights in the kitchen, the closeness of her body,
the warmth of her purposeful fingers –
and the fact that I could not move.
I looked down at my greying hair where
it lay clumped like solidified tear drops
beside my feet. I was thinking of catching her hand,
of pulling her close to me, but instead I undid the
towel and rising, politely thanked her,
watching for the smallest, wavering flicker
of a sign to show that this common-place
gesture was more than mere habit. I wanted
to read the possibility, the slightest hint of a
promise that more than thin threads and
the cutting of hair bound us together.
“That’s better” she said, with a slow smile