Curls

The ocean loves my hair. My hair flirts with it, gets curly and carefree. My eyes follow. They still remember the dark and sensual look. Then it's the turn of the corners of my mouth. They still know how to rise just enough to make my eyes smile. Then comes the rest of my body, which sits sunk deep into the comfy armchair, too lazy to move. My hip feels somehow curvier, my hand rests more gracefully upon the small corner table, and my pose is more invitingly relaxed.

My mind is the only part of me that won't let go. It listens, judges, watches, keeps track of time. It says I am tired. It agrees with that. It wins. My foot remembers that I am wearing flats not heels. My hips go back to skinny, my hands thank the dimness of light for being graceful on their wrinkled skin. My lips regain their skepticism, my eyes lose interest in the random people passing by, and my body is ready to stretch and go to bed. It's been long enough.

But my hair is still curly, it still flirts, still knows that the ocean is so close, so dense. I run my fingers through it and my fingers feel the energy of the ocean. The curls don't care that they are dark because I dyed them dark. The curls breathe. They are free. I know I can trust them tonight.

I know they won't flatten. Not until I travel back home where it's dry.