Page 21 of The Fallacy of True Love
“No.”
“Damn.” He laughed. “Who put that stick up your ass?”
I slowly lifted my head to stare straight into his eyes. “Guys who can’t stop asking stupid questions.”
“Geez. You can’t take a joke or what?”
“Obviously not. Now you can either close your mouth and keep your eyes to yourself while I poke holes into your skin, or you can move on to the other artist. What’s your choice?”
“Look, I didn’t mean?—”
“Five, four?—”
He held up his hands. “Fine, fine.”
To my dismay, he stretched his arm back out on my plastic-wrapped tattoo table and waved his free hand toward it, as though saying, “Have at it.”
It was official—worst day of the year.
Alonzo
I spent the rest of the morning getting my arm bandaged and conking out for a solid hour on the bench outside the clinic. After buying a change of clothes and swimming trunks‚ I wandered down the beach, where music streamed alongside the swoosh of the waves. Several tents stood in a U formation, and in the middle were tables and chairs alongside oversized cushions set on handwoven mats.
Colorful banderitas cut out of plastic wrappers hung between bamboo structures as people milled about carrying food wrapped in banana leaves, and coconuts with the tops cut out. On the other side of the U, a man and woman duo performed on a small stage, singing while he played the keyboard and she the ukulele.
It seemed like I couldn’t have chosen a better day to escape to Juana.
I should have gone straight to the food booths since I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. But I had no appetite.
Spotting a sign for tattoos, I remembered that conversation with Dani and my friends during our last trip. How she’d dissuaded me from getting one because her parents wouldn’t approve. I should have told her then that it didn’t matter if I got inked—they’d always disapprove of me anyway.
Not that it mattered now.
I followed the sign, only to stop short at the sight of a girl inking some white guy’s bicep. Her head was bent over as she focused on the tattoo, but I’d recognize the colorful birds on her shoulder anywhere.
So she didn’t just enjoy getting inked. She did it too.
Like she sensed my gaze on her, she looked up and turned her head in my direction. Her eyes widened a second before narrowing, and I made out the words her mouth formed as clearly as though she’d written them across her forehead: what the hell?
I walked toward her, ignoring the death stare she leveled at me. Everything about her screamed that I should turn around and go away, but I wanted to say sorry for what happened. And there was a part of me was curious about her work too.
When I reached her booth, I said, “Long time no see.”
“Not long enough,” she muttered. And yet, her gaze flicked to my arm, as though checking if I’d gotten it treated.
“No internal bleeding,” I told her. “This is your job? Cool.”
Head snapping up, she scowled at me. “You were supposed to avoid me, remember?”
I glanced at the guy she was tattooing and caught him ogling her chest. “Dude, eyes up,” I scolded him.
She switched her glare to him as he faced forward.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Do you want me to stay?” I asked her.
“No. He’s going to behave. Right?” She directed the question to the guy and punctuated it with a tap of her needle on his forearm.
