Combing Through the Evening

The apartment was quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock and the distant hum of city traffic outside the window. She sat on the edge of her bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting warm light over her shoulders.

In her hands, she held a wooden comb, running it slowly through her long, unbound hair. Each stroke was unhurried, deliberate, as if combing wasn’t just a routine, but a ritual. The strands flowed like silk, parting effortlessly under the teeth of the comb, cascading down her back in smooth waves.

Every so often, she paused, gathering a section over her shoulder to detangle it gently before letting it slip through her fingers. The movement was second nature, something she had done a thousand times, but there was something almost hypnotic about it—the way the hair shimmered in the light, the way it settled back into place with perfect weight and softness.

She gave one final pass with the comb, tucking a few stray strands behind her ear before setting it aside. Then, with a quiet sigh, she gathered all of her hair into her hands, twisting it up into a loose bun before letting it fall again, undoing the effort just as quickly as she had begun.

The night stretched on, still and peaceful, as she continued combing—lost in thought, lost in the simple pleasure of the motion, lost in the quiet beauty of the moment.