The importance of hair
The dream shatters at the sound of the alarm and falls like a glass jar hidden between the sheets. The man from my dream doesn’t want to leave me so he moves to my bathroom. Of course he doesn’t, I was still dreaming when I saw him cross his legs, resting against the bathtub with a certain respect. I wanted to tell him to stay in his place and go back to the floor, among the fragments.
When I got on the train, he was next to me and I smelt the underworld that eluded me in the dream. There he was shorter but that was his hair, messy grey and with a harassed style that wafted over his forehead. The sound of the phone took him by surprise. He slowly answered and slowly threw his head back, stretching his arms and yawning while he talked. It wasn’t a matter of criminal appeal but when his eyes disappeared behind the harassed hairstyle, he went away to never come back again.
I looked at the empty space and the luggage shelf, hoping he had left something, but there was nothing. He had nothing and he left nothing, I saw with disappointment, as there must always be something behind a face with terrible hair.