Chapter 7: Glass in Her Hair

Rowan lived on the third floor of a brick building in Queens, above a laundromat.

The apartment had one room, one window and more plants than furniture.

Ferns hung in the kitchen, and a lemon tree stood in the bathtub.

"I know," he said. "It's a lot."

"I like it."

I did.

It smelled of soil and warm cotton from the laundromat downstairs.

On a shelf by the window there was one framed photograph.

A woman in a gray uniform stood in a glass lobby holding a mop bucket and laughing at whoever was holding the camera.

"My mother," Rowan said, when he saw me looking. "She cleaned offices."

"She looks happy."

"She was, mostly."

He didn't say anything else about her, and I didn't ask.

He made soup from a can and put extra pepper in mine because he had noticed I liked it.

We ate on the couch with our bowls on our knees.

The whole day sat on me.

When I put my spoon down he looked at my head.

"You have glass in your hair."

"I do?"

"From the roof. Little pieces. I can see them from here."

I reached up and found one, and it cut my finger.

I watched it heal while he watched me watching.

"Sit still," he said. "Please. I'll get them."

He knelt behind the couch, and I felt his fingers touch my scalp.

He worked slowly.

He lifted a strand, found a sliver, drew it out and set it on a saucer on the arm of the couch.