One long blonde hair pulled from the sweater I wore to yesterday’s lunch and just before today’s I found another had woven itself into the velcro of my bag. Not long ago a darker hair clung to the tan ribs of my corduroys, and shortly before this a six inch strand more brunette than red that had folded itself into my sheets deterred my advancing fingertips.
I am led to conclude there are women who occupy my apartment in my absence, such as whenever I step into the elevator to the ground and the belongings and spaces I abandon disappear from my memory as I concentrate on the places I leave for. Or it may be they are always here, most of the time invisible but leaving conspicuous traces to inform me of their existence and also to taunt me. I want to meet these women. We can have coffee. By now they must know where I keep the filters.