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Holly

They gave her a towel, but her hair is still stiff, her face tight. Crackly.

“Shouldn’t you be fucking Rose?” she says when Roger opens the door.

Concern in his big brown eyes–she shoves past him, pulls off her shirt. “Want to fuck this instead?” she asks. “I won’t even watch.”

“Holly, I’m going to call someone–”

“God dammit!” she screams. “Why won’t you judge me!”

“Never learned how,” he says, and leaves.

Holly puts her open hand through a pane in the glass door, then wraps it in a towel. Her hair is so matted. She grabs the scissors.

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