Page 33 of On the Rocks
“You’ve stopped here twice without coming inside, so I’m thinking you’re too scared.”
She smirks, leaning against the door frame. A lighter flipping between her fingers with the skill of a gunslinger.
“I don’t have a lot of money.”
Her long black fingernail points to my hand curling and uncurling the dark yellow peel.
“How about the ring?”
My stomach turns as I shake my head. “It’s bad luck.”
“Luck’s what you make it.”
Impulsive. Foolhardy. Spontaneous. Tomorrow I may regret agreeing. Tomorrow I may not even remember. Tomorrow I may not even be alive. So I'm going to live now. Enjoy this moment. Savor the strange comfort I feel from deciding for myself what marks my skin. More than happy to slide the band off my finger and give her the reminder of everything I've endured. And survived.
“Okay then, let’s get to work.”
Excitement and nervousness swirl in my stomach. She points to a table, and I drop my bag by my feet before climbing on the thick white cushion. A litany of questions and instructions that I don't hear. Somehow I've becoming obsessed. There's nothing I want more than for her to start.
"Where do you want it?"
With a shaking hand I brush over the location. Her eyebrows fly up in surprise, but quickly morph into an approving nod. I've impressed her which makes me proud. I tug off my shirt while she pulls a curtain around us. Creating a little cocoon of privacy. Shutting out the rest of the world. Just me, her, and the buzzing needle.
"I'm Monica, by the way."
Of course, I don't have one to share. I refuse to call myself Cat. That's his name for me, but not who I am. "Hi."
“And your name is...?”
No reason to hide since I've exposed all my other truths once I took off my top. She sees all that I am. With curious eyes that wander over my battered body. Although she refrains from asking me. Maybe she’s seen worse. Maybe she knows the answers to those kinds of questions don’t come easily. Or at all. “I don't know."
"Come on. I don't bite...unless you want me to." She laughs at her old school line. "These are the jokes lady. I'm no comedian."
"I really don't know. I can't remember anything since before yesterday when I woke up with a man who claims to be my husband." I stroke the swelling on my cheek, wincing from the tenderness. "But I think it's a lie."
"What the fuck?"
I guess I have finally shocked her. "Yeah, I know."
With a head shake, she returns to her work. No more comments. Or judgment. Just letting me talk. It feels good to share my burden. To divulge my plight with someone else. Even if it’s impossible to believe me. "I ran away because he..."
I can't bring myself to say the word out loud, and she can't seem to keep going. Looking up, she meets my gaze. Her eyes dark with understanding rather than pity.
"Yeah, I get it. I had a guy who swore he loved me too. Fucking broke my nose twice he loved me so damn much."
Her heartache may be older, yet still burns as raw as mine. "I'm sorry."
"Me too."
I settle back in. My story unfolding while my tattoo takes shape. The sting isn't so bad. Right when the pain gets to be too much, she stops. A mind reader as well as a talented artist. Methodical in her work. Blotting away the blood. Touching up various spots until she's satisfied. Before I even get to see.
Finally, she rolls back on her stool, grabs a mirror, and holds the handle out to me. "What do you think?"
Almost too breathtaking to answer. "I love it."
She grins from my whisper. Pleased that I'm so overcome. "You're welcome."
With my clothes back on, she gives me a few last reminders and a folded up paper. In return, I give her a gentle hug. To protect my tender skin and both of our fragile hearts. “Thank you. I really do love it.”
