Her forefinger and index entwine up the black strands, climbing toward her head, pulling it sideways and down. The thumb is the anchor, spooling around in loop after loop, but forgetting the ends, letting them go, until her head pulls back and they have to start at the bottom, pulling up again. It is absent-minded, desperate, alternately slow, almost still, then frenetic. It goes on, delicate, mindless, ecstatic and determined, the sunlight warm and orange, a spider spinning a beautiful erotic web.
And then she turns her head, and as attractive as she is, full-lipped and confident, her look subtracts from the motion, for she is calculated in her look, and cannot understand the elegance of her own hand.