“Come with me to the salon,” Snow says.
“What’s the salon?”
“You’ll like it.” She sighs out imaginary smoke.
I met Snow at a New Year’s party. She’s a runaway, like everyone I seem to know now, but I haven’t learned what from. Necklaces hung from nails in a narrow hallway, stacks of sideways books, broken jade plants: I recognized these as signs of a glam yet temporary encampment, but nothing indicated origin or destination. What color her hair really is, whether she grew up pretty, how she turned up here — it’s hard to tell these things, harder to tell whether they matter, whether they cast a shadow on her present.
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