“How’d my hair even get in here?” she asks, scrubbing inside the fridge.

“The same way it gets everywhere,” replies the man who’s found her hair where it could not be, in places she hasn’t been, places she would never go. Caught inside the vent of an airplane she was not on. Folded into a page she’s never read. Pulled from the tangles of his beard an ocean away. High up a rock face, gravity loosening his grip on the world, a strand—hers—wrapped neatly around his wrist.

Delicate, delicious—enough to make him hold on a little longer.


Joshua Michael Johnson is an Assistant Professor at Chattanooga State. His work appears in Ink in Thirds, Crack the Spine, and The Writing Disorder.

Photo Credit: Dima Pursanov

8 Responses to “Attachment”

  1. This reminds me of a Jack Gilbert poem

    “Married” by Jack Gilbert

    I came back from the funeral and crawled

    around the apartment, crying hard,

    searching for my wife’s hair.

    For two months got them from the drain,

    from the vacuum cleaner, under the refrigerator,

    and off the clothes in the closet.

    But after other Japanese women came,

    there was no way to be sure which were

    hers, and I stopped. A year later,

    repotting Michiko’s avocado, I find

    a long black hair tangled in the dirt.

  2. NIck Mansito says:

    Beautiful piece.

    • Alejandra says:

      Excellent story. Catch my attention because is very interesting in the way that you always ask where is anything or how this thing stay there.

  3. Julie Mitchell says:

    I love the intimacy in this story!

  4. Michael Mcloughlin says:

    There is something so true about this story. Those strands of hair seem to just seem apppear from nowhere. Sometimes I find hairs from ex’s, even ex ex’s!

  5. Josie says:

    This is beautiful!

  6. Oh, my GOD! This is my first foray into 100-word fiction and I’m hooked!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *