Hair

Sparks fly.

Long sweeping strokes and the black locks spill like ink over her shoulders as she brings the brush back up to start again.

It's winter.

In the dim light of the moon he can see the sparks as they dance along, crackling in the cold air.

In the day she wears it in a practical fashion, tied back, restrained.

She only wears it loose at night.

For him.