I sink slowly into the street. Escalator etiquette slouches during the evening commute; a man yawns and stretches so languidly that no one may pass. I stare at his crown, mocha through a darker fringe. One white hair knifes from his scalp. I wonder what happened on the day this hair was born: like any other, up at seven, shower and oatmeal and train and hours of inconsequence, or the unthinkable day. The day he murdered his neighbor over an anxious animal. The day he finally got the courage to abandon the crust of love. The day he gave up his dream of being a playboy in Prague.
The white hair is a reminder of the one thing or of nothing. He never will see it in the mirror, so I will carry the secret for him, even if I can’t know what it is.