Page 74 of Vasily the Nail

“Is this safe?” I ask, somewhat mollified, as I sit back down and attempt to push my French eggs onto my garlic baguette, but my stomach is flipping uncomfortably now that the gun and all of its extra equipment are in front of me.

“Everything that might be unsafe is sealed. I’ll take care of you, you know this.”

I tuck my hands between my knees and nod.

Vasily wipes his mouth clean and carries his plate into the kitchen. He usually takes mine, too, but I don’t think he’s gotten lazy. He wants me to eat more.

“I’ll go first so you can see how this works, okay?”

“You want me to tattoo you?” I ask, horrified.

Vasily snorts. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to tattoo myself.”

Not sure I like that, either. I’ve heard they’re painful. But I watch as he gets the equipment set up, fascinated by it even though I have no idea what any of it is. I see that there’s a piece that it’s in a sealed pouch; that must be the unsafe part. Theneedle. Once he gets it all set, he doesn’t hesitate to drop his pants, grab a pen, and doodle on his thigh.

The sound of the gun when he starts it up gets me tense. I guess Vasily is used to it despite having only a couple small tattoos and that brand because he looks calm as anything. Even when he lays the needle into his flesh, he’s calm, literally unflinching. A good thing, I suppose, when you’re tattooing yourself. Still, I can’t help checking his eyes to see if I’m wrong and he did get high at some point when I wasn’t looking.

Nope, crystal clear, normal pupils. As far as I can tell, he’s good. Just this calm.

The way his hand is positioned, I can’t see the design as he works. He works quickly, at least in my opinion, and once he lifts his hand, he wipes it down once with a wet paper towel and shows me what he’s done.

It’s a word. A phrase, I guess, because it starts with the number 3. “Threebezgorka,” I sound out slowly, surprised that for how incomprehensible the Cyrillic alphabet is to me, I can at least recognize the letters when it’s in cursive. Other than theklooking like a weird attempt to make a regular capital but smallk, which could simply be Vasily’s own handwriting, it all looks the same.

There’s a smirk on Vasily’s face like whatever he’s just written is naughty or I’ve pronounced it in a way that makes a normal word dirty, but he doesn’t say anything and I don’t push. He was calm through that, but blood is bubbling in a couple spots. Blood is pain. I’m a wimp. I’m getting too nervous now to ask what he wrote there.

Vasily finishes up by putting a little clear strip of adhesive plastic over it, removes the cartridge, pops it in the package he got it from, and tosses it in the trash. He takes my plate then, but instead of tossing the food, he places it into the microwave, saving it for later.

“I don’t think I’ll want to eat after this,” I admit.

“You will. It’ll hurt, but it’s quick. It may get sore later, but it’s going to be small enough I don’t even think you’ll feel anything. Just a couple quick jabs, and then you’ll feel better again. Now take off your pants.” He wipes down the table with a counter wipe as he says that, just usual clean-up, and then puts on a pair of latex gloves.

I’m pretty sure if one of usdoeshave a disease, we’ve blown right past the stage of gloves, but I appreciate the thought.

I pull down my pants and adjust my panties, only for Vasily to say, “Those, too.”

“You kept yours on.”

He flashes me a playful grin, glitter dancing in his eyes. “Because I tattooed my thigh. I’m not tattooing your thigh.”

I consider firing back that if he thinks he’s tattooing my bikini area, he better tattoo his dick first, but I don’t think he’d hesitate on that for a second.

We probably wouldn’t be able to have sex for a while. We’re in a critical window whether he knows that or not. And I’m thinking dick tattoos probably look funny. Like, it definitely doesn’t seem like the right sort of skin for it. I don’t want to look at that every time we have sex.

Hopefully for a long time going forward.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Vasily asks when I’ve gone still for probably too long.

“Am I really yours?” I blurt out.

“Da, you’re really mine. I wouldn’t mark you if you weren’t.”

“And Denver?” I ask, desperate to know if he’s thinking about an actual future.

He spears his fingers into my hair and rubs my scalp as he kisses my forehead every bit as fiercely as he would my lips. “I have a long night tonight. While you’re at Kseniya’s, why don’t you see if the town you want exists?”

It’s really happening. It’s gotta be really happening. I don’t want to go to Kseniya’s again tonight. She and Miguel have been great, but if I’m not here, it’s because Vasily isn’t, either, and there’s bad stuff going on. It’s not that I have an issue with Kseniya and Miguel babysitting me so much as I have an issue with not knowing if Vasily is safe.

But I don’t want to stress him. This Denver thing isbig. We are not people who should have the ability to just move to wherever and be baristas. Didn’t he tell me that once? That he used to dream of living anywhere but here but that’s no longer an option?

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