The first hair I found was between the pages of a magazine ruelled between the mattress and the wall. It had to be hers; my own hair stops at the shoulders.

Some years ago I ran into Daisy at an opening for a group show on Orchard Street. The theme of the show was “Bad Optics” and I don’t remember much about the artwork except for a wall of small square canvases, each a painting of different yet eerily identical scenes of the backsides of cops as they swarmed someone unseen on the ground.