Frank saw her more than a block away, in the town where he had come to live, where Maggie had no business to be, and he no expectation of seeing her. Something about the way she held her head, as if she were marvelling at the icicles eaves of the downtown shops, skarped recogniton. Or perhaps it was the way the low winter sun caught the red of her hair, so it glinted like a signal. His wife use to doubt aloud that the color was natural, and he had had to repress the argument that if Maggie dyed it she dyed her pubic hair to match. It was true, Maggie consisered her hair a glory. When she let if down, the sheaves of it became an enveloping, entangling third presence in the bed, and when it was pinned up, as it was today, her head looked large and her neck poignantly thin, at its cocky tilt.
Natural color, John Updike
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