“I don’t want to lose my hair,” I say, giving it a wet pat. “That would be a shame,” Kodiak says from the next bench over. “It’s very nice hair.” I play that line in my head as I let my body relax. My imagination puts Kodiak in a different position each time he says it. Sometimes he’s lying down on his belly, sometimes he’s on his side, head cradled in his hand. Sometimes he’s stroking the hair he just admired. Sometimes he’s wearing his red Dimokratía suit, sometimes he’s wearing nothing at all.
