Woken, with an itchy head, she thought about using the nit comb, the good one with stainless steel teeth. It was Autumn and she felt cosy in bed, so she lay there thinking. Hurt was accumulative. Passion is nitric oxide; a rush to the head, a short-lived thrill, but ultimately meaningless. She was looking for something longer lasting. She wanted to be free from ghostly longing. She scratched her head. But the itch could not be satisfied.
