Page 13 of Look, Don't Touch

I notice a cross-hatched design on the sleeve of his suit jacket before I force my eyes away and back to the sky. The sunset is just beginning to blend its colors into the clouds that are no longer heart-shaped but gray and droopy. They promise rain.

Cold. Darkness. Sorrow.

“Six years licensed with my PhD. Thirteen, if you include all the practicums and internships.”

“It’s never good to lose someone, but it seems almost inevitable in your line of work.” His words are soft.

Sure, colleagues of mine have lost patients. But I don’t specialize in suicide prevention. I’d tried to talk Matt into seeing a psychologist who does. I even set up appointments for him. Time and again, he refused to show up at a single one.

“I specialize in cognitive and behavioral therapy. In the beginning, I saw patients dealing with severe depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Slowly, that shifted into phobias, relationships, and sexual disorders. I’ve been lucky.”

“Or good at your job,” he offers.

My throat aches from my cries and screams. It’s thick and cumbersome. Because of his kindness, the threat of more raging sentiments sits on the precipice of erupting.

“Considering I left you raw and vulnerable with no resolution, cried in front of you, and told you things I shouldn’t, I’ll go with luck.”

The room goes quiet for a long time. We stand side by side, staring at the birds, the trees, the people, the nothingness and everythingness of life in front of us. There’s a calming reassurance in the silence, in his disposition.

“I am sorry.” His words vibrate with meaning.

“Whatever for? You’ve done nothing wrong.” I breathe.

He takes his hand out of his pockets. They hang by his side. He has long fingers, and when he balls them into fists, the veins and muscles in his hands bulge.

“I can’t offer you comfort.”

For a moment, I want to cry for him. For all the comfort and pleasure that he’s lost. For all the connections he’s been unable to make in his life. For his discomfort. For his perennial solitude.

“You don’t have to touch, talk, or even allow me to look at you to provide me comfort, Mr. Judge.” I pull my sneaking gaze away from him and focus on the horizon. The sky has turned dark, drained of all its color. For this moment, it looks brighter than it did thirty minutes ago. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness and presence.”

He nods. I can barely see the movement in my periphery.

“Can I call someone for you?”

There is no one to call.

“No. You’ve helped quite a lot. Thank you.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.”

I nod. "Goodbye, Mr. Judge.”

He retreats from view. This time, I watch his silhouette as it appears in the light of the exit room in the reflection of the window. He stalls in the doorway.

“Goodbye, Hailey.”

Then he leaves and closes the door behind him.

I pull the towel from my hair and use it to wipe the steam from the mirror. My eyes are red and slightly swollen. My lips are stained from the wine I downed while in the shower. It’s nothing makeup won’t hide.

Slowly, my hips sway to a sultry blues mix pouring throughout my condo. I wipe the steam again, lower on the mirror, until I can see clear down to the flare of my hips.

After the dip of my collarbone, Smokey’s wings spread wide across my chest. The inky-black arches and curves stretch from one side of my body to the other in an intricate series of thin lines and then taper over the swells of my breasts. The dragon’s regal face stares viciously back at me. His eyes are tattooed at the center of my sternum. His claws and tail curl low between my breasts.

Grit’s lion tail entwines with Smokey’s serrated dragon one. My griffin crawls across my torso, his rear lion feet running down the center line of my abdomen. Thick, ruffled feather wings unfurl wide and point down my obliques. His front talons settle on the right side of my belly button, and his screaming eagle head baits my chimera, whose lion and goat heads and snake tail twist on the opposite side of my belly button. Charlie’s body is an amalgamation of ferocity and strength. He nestles low on the left side of my belly. His rear snuggles close to my bare pussy.

The pieces are tied together with an elaborate rose vine with large thorns that accentuate my form's natural curves and dips, lending femininity to the harsh creatures that mark my body. The three are far from the only ones. They are the first and most precious to me.

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