“A hot wind was blowing around my head, the strands of my hair lifting and swirling in it, like ink spilled in water.”
“I feel like someone’s going to see my hot pocket if the wind blows this thing up a bit.”I snorted. “Gram!”
“I plan on leaving my mark on this world, in ink, with a pen spill that’ll make all the oil spills combined look like literature.”
“Because you're lukewarm, not hot or cold, you'll spill out of my mouth like vomit.”
“Both of my hands wove into her hair again and clutched at the soft curls. No matter how I tightened my grip, the strands kept falling from my fingers, a shower of water from the sky.”
“...strands of your hair and tendrils of the wind spin into nothingness the memories of that day...”