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They can now analyse hair and reveal traces of that person’s last movements. What they had ingested, the food, the toxins, the alien substances, would all be there, under a microscope. I wonder what story this last hair would tell; where you’d been, what you’d done, who you’d done it with.

At the ends would be the prosecco from the wedding. In all the photos you had a glass in your hand and you kept saying well we’re paying for it and then going off to speak to people. After that the honeymoon; the wine, the moussaka and souvlaki. I wonder if endorphins show up in hair analysis. Moving further up the thread, after the repeated weekends of gin and takeaways would probably be your work’s Christmas party. More wine, more gin, though not that much because you threw most of it up the next day. Would your pill show up about here? Is this when you started taking it again? I thought it was because you didn’t want a family after all but maybe this was your first night with him. Maybe that’s where you were until five in the morning. Maybe you took your pill again to avoid any confusion.

And then near the root would be the business trip to London. The fumes, the fancy restaurants I bet he took you to. Him. Traces of him in your hair, his dirty selfish sweat and lust, on you and in you.

And when I’d find all this out I’d be here, with nothing to wonder anymore, except where you’re leaving hairs now and whether they still contain a trace of me.

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