At seventeen, there’s my dark hair. There’s the way it turns an iridescent red in the sun—and grows long long, a chestnut river waving tides down my back. To a certain eye, it’s exotic. To mine, it’s an Alfaro inheritance.
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At seventeen, there’s my dark hair. There’s the way it turns an iridescent red in the sun—and grows long long, a chestnut river waving tides down my back. To a certain eye, it’s exotic. To mine, it’s an Alfaro inheritance.
Read More