21. I'll go to the grave loving you

"Nelly, my fingers hurt,” I complained as I worked on the last cornrow. “Your hair's just too damn long."

Plaiting Nelly’s hair was usually a challenge, because it was too soft and silky to grasp from his scalp. And then there was the length—around fourteen inches of hair. I wasn't sure why he liked his hair plaited, anyway. Maybe it made him appear tougher and more street? Or maybe he just liked having my hands in his hair.

"You don't like my hair long? You wanna cut it?" Nelly asked, always ready to please me even when my complaints were trivial. He made me feel as though he lived and breathed only for me.

"But then you'd lose all your strength and beauty, my dear Samson," I teased. "I'm no Delilah, I could never do that to you."

"So you like it then?"

"Of course I do. It just takes a hell of a long time to plait," I said. "It's my fingers that protest."

Nelly was sitting cross-legged on a thick red blanket while I knelt behind him grooming his hair. We were at our favorite spot—un