Page 15 of Going Down

“A little of both.” I admit.

Dash strokes my bare, patterned arm. Despite the continued connection, I know from the way his muscles tense that I’ve hurt his feelings and want to make it up to him. He’s such an incredibly good person. One that shouldn’t have to put up with a grown woman who is confused and trying to find herself. It’s funny that this crazy man is more self-actualized than I am. The way I wear my hair and my tattoo are the polar opposite of the strangled soul living within me.

“My mother saw it after the brown outlining was done. When she thought it was henna, it was fine, but as I went back and had the color added she became upset. She insisted that I’d regret having my body permanently mutilated. That it was unprofessional. And if anyone saw the tattoo it would lessen my chances of being taken seriously. No one would believe I had respect for my own body and therefore was incapable of showing it when I cared for a patient.”

He places my hand over his right pec. Splayed, my fingers would almost cover an unusual—for a guy—tree of life inking. The boughs break off into birds and one of the roots digging down into the earth blossoms into a rose. A drop of water on one of the red petals makes me sorrowful. It’s delicate, beautifully ornate in a similar way to my own, and makes me feel connected to Dash. Yet I still frown.

“Is that why you hide it?”

“No. It’s incomplete and I got tired of being asked when I’d finish it.”

“And?”

“What do you want me to say, Dash? That even though she was the one incapable of loving anyone but herself and taking care of her needs that it reminds me I could be like her? Or I worry when my father looks at it he sees an irresponsible person; A woman who couldn’t finish what she started when I quit school?”

“There’s a start.”

I huff. “I swear you should be a shrink, wanting to get into everyone’s head.”

“Only yours. I want you to be honest with me the way I am with you. Part of that is admitting to yourself why things affect you the way they do.” His fingertip rounds the jade iris of the all-seeing eye, up an orange paisley to the deep violet of an urn that a gray elephant holds in its trunk.”

“Gansha?”

“I like elephants.” I shrug a shoulder.

“Elephants, fortune cookies, hot chocolate, and snow. What else?”

“There’s a hidden fish.” I show Dash where.

“What else?” He repeats, wrangling for something deeper.

“I miss when life was easier.” I frown.

“This is easy. We’re easy. Or we would be if you let us.”

I let Dash kiss me because I want him to be right. We are easy. We have a start and a finish. He’s gone as soon as the snow melts and since he goes where the wind blows, I’ll probably never see him again. I can do simple. No strings attached. Well, as long as I’m the only one Dash is being this straightforward with and bringing to his bed. Sharing is a complication I won’t ever deal with. It reminds me of my mother’s cheating.

Dash gets out of bed to stoke the woodstove. While he’s up he microwaves us poached eggs and bowls of grits from single-serve brown packets, adding ham and scallions.

The smell has me sitting on the edge of the bed by the time he returns. “Do you eat like this all the time?” I blow on the spoon and take a bite. Grits are bland, but the way Dash has doctored them up, these are bursting with flavor.

“Don’t want to starve. Or survive on snack bar cheeseburgers.” Dash teases me between bites. He pulls a blanket up over my shoulders, using the second layer like a shawl to cover what the thin sheet doesn’t. He only has on boxer briefs so I lift my arm and offer him a spot under the blanket. We empty our bowls keeping one another warm and Dash tells me about a line cook he befriended in Argentina who taught him the basics.

“Where are you going next?”

“To work.”

“No silly, what country?” I elbow Dash’s side.

“New Zealand.”

“You’re kidding me!” I shout, thrilled for Dash. “I’ve never skied there or Australia. You must be beyond excited.”

“Never been, so here’s hoping.” He lifts his black coffee in a mock toast and takes a sip. “Listen, I’m not running out on you, but preschool lessons start early.”

My heart melts a little when I think of Dash showing four-year-olds how to wedge their skis to make a pizza to learn to stop.

“You can stay as long as you want. I was actually hoping we’d have a repeat of last night tonight?”

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