Your hair was pulled back, a few wayward strands refusing to obey the tyranny of your hair clip. My affinity for their rebellion was quickly interrupted by the sight of a solitary grey hair in that otherwise starless midnight. I privately celebrated the lonely rebel and delighted in the fact that it had escaped your murderous vanity. Your white skin betrayed a faint branch of blue veins on your forehead. I imagined they were lonely roads on an otherwise untrodden landscape. I opened my eyes and let go of this reverie by remembering I had to clean the kitchen.