Page 39 of Dirty Ink

Conor leapt to his imposing height and stepped between us.

“Woah,” he said, holding up his hands to me. “Hang on. Okay. So, alright. Alright. This is all kinds of banjaxed. Obviously. But look, Mason, there’s a solution, right?”

I stared at him.

He shook his hands vaguely. “Ye know. Divorce papers. Some shite like that.”

“Yeah,” I said darkly.

“So, problem solved. Then she’s gone, right?”

“Rachel has some…business in town,” I said. “She’ll be sticking around for a few weeks.”

“Right,” Conor said. “But what I mean is, it’s not a big deal, right?”

I glanced toward the stairs. At the top was a hallway. At the end of which was a door. Behind which was Rachel. My wife.

“It sounds like it was just a drunken thing, right?” Conor said. “Everybody’s done daft things when they’ve been on the gargle, you know?”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see everyone nodding. Agreeing.

Conor appeared at my side. His hand gentle on my arm. That was a lot for him. His voice was soft. Also a lot for him.

“That’s all it was, right?” he asked. “A stupid, one-time drunken thing? Right?”

I turned to him and forced a smile.

“Right.”

Mason

Then...

There was glitter on my pillow.

I blinked awake, unsure of where I was. What time it was. Even what day it was. I was unsure of everything except that there was glitter on my pillow, sunrise (or was it sunset?) peeked through the crack in the heavy drapes, and that an arm, warm and tanned and covered in bar stamps, was draped over my side. I was unsure of everything except the glitter, its colour, and the fact that I loved that arm.

I loved the delicate hairs that ran up, soft as down. I loved the delicate wrist bone at the end of it. I loved the sticky mess on the ring finger left from what must have been a candy ring. The kind you get out of gumball machines. Or win at fairs. Or buy in packets at convenience stores.

I couldn’t remember when we’d gotten candy rings. I couldn’t say whether she’d sucked it off her finger or whether it had been me. But I wished that the little sticky smear of colours, bright as the glitter on the pillow, could stay there forever. Perhaps I could tattoo it on her finger. Just like that. Matching the colour. Using the sticky stain as the stencil. The best stencil. The only stencil.

A hangover was on the horizon. That much I knew for certain as well. There was no avoiding it given how much we’d had to drink, half of which I was sure I wasn’t even aware of consuming. It was coming. And it was going to be brutal.

But for that moment, half awake, half asleep in that unfamiliar hotel room, I felt fine. Just fine. Okay, maybe I was still a little locked. Or maybe it was the remanent of the candy colour ring and my daydreams of making it permanent that had me lightheaded.

The arm stirred. The steady breathing that had warmed my bare back changed. A long exhale. Then a stilling. I didn’t know why, but it seemed like she was holding her breath. Slowly I turned over.

And she was there.

The reason for the glitter. The owner of the hand with the faded ring. Rachel.

Her wild hair was even more wild. From the hot wind on the strip. From dancing on a table at Denny’s. From snagging on the bricks that I’d pressed her up against in the back alleys of a seedy dive bar. From the couch in her dressing room. From God knows where else. From life. From love. From me.

A wing of blue eyeliner was smeared at the corner of her eyes. It made her look like a rockstar. Like a warrior. Like a little girl who got into her mother’s makeup. I loved all of them. All of her. Every facet. Every bright, shining spot. Every shadow.

Rachel smiled at me, skin aglow in the golden light of morning, but there was a hesitation. I got that sense again that she was holding her breath.

“Rachel.”

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