“I thought you hated it,” he says. His voice is scratchy, like he’s swallowed sand. I frown. Tug absently at the strand. “Did I say that?” “You did. In your email.” And then with his eyes on me, without having to pause or think twice, he recites, “From the bottom of my heart, I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft when I’m sure it’s not, because there’s nothing soft about you, anywhere at all.”
