A fragment

Just something I found myself needing to write as I rode the train home. I suppose if it’s about anyone, it’s about my wife. She’s brunette, but I couldn’t not use the first line.

Her hair, well, you’d call it red but it’s orange, like a blonde under a sodium lamp. The walls around her, blue as the sky lit halogen white. In reflections sometimes things are clearer, filtered to their essentials by the ghost-dark. In childhood she had been cute, freckled and tomboyish; as a young woman, a raving beauty. She still astonished him now, as the dew evaporated in time’s clear afternoon from her radiant skin, and lines raced across her face to draw every thought she’s had in her life.

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