Pizza Tattoo

The summer had been hot. “The hottest one yet,” they said. Seattle was smoky. I’d wake up and check the air quality to see if I could go for my usual run along the Puget Sound. I was tired of feeling smothered.

It was my first summer after coming out, and I had fallen into this classic lesbian group. The one where this one had dated that one, and were still friends. I was getting used to the whole thing. So were my parents. They’d ask careful questions, trying to catch up to my new language. I loved them for it. 

I had committed to being my own person, you know? Just “self-dating” or whatever the instagram therapists call it these days. I had booked a one way ticket to Mexico because I needed to get out of the US. Something to make me feel alive again or just take a leap into a life that looked different from the one I was tired of living. I didn’t know what was supposed to come next; all I knew was that I needed to go. And that if I didn’t go, I might never leave.

The thing was, I was always the one leaving. I had this subtle but consistent itch to go. Like maybe there was something bigger or more interesting out there. My friends looked at me and asked why I’d leave behind something I had spent so much time building. My life in Seattle was full, and seemingly vibrant. There was something missing though, or maybe my therapist was right about me just seeking the next thrill. My restlessness always got the best of me. 

“What would happen if you stayed?” they all asked. 

“It’s not an option,” I’d reply. My mind was made up. I was stubborn as hell. 

I was going to a town my friend said was built on rose quartz. That sounded nice, and different. I was already dreaming about the cobblestones and colors. My mom called me “Rara Avis”, Latin for Rare Bird. She jokes that she raised me to be too independent. 

I had spent the last month selling my broken IKEA furniture, clearing out my closet full of dead hobbies, and feeling nostalgic about Seattle sunsets. 

The group asked me to go to The Rose. Despite it being probably the worst lesbian bar in the US, it was all we had. The same sticky floors, bad DJ, and three flavors of white claw. We were all feeling over it, standing on the patio shooting the shit. It was Olivia’s birthday. I barely knew Olivia but that’s how these things go. I was just along for the ride. 

There was a crispness to the air that night that gave the smallest hint at changing weather. I wondered if the sunsets might lose their haze soon and keep me in Seattle for longer. They were tempting like that, cast over the Olympics. I told myself that Mexico sunsets might be different, but equally as beautiful. 

Someone made a joke and said there was a new unofficial lesbian bar opening down the road. One of the girls was engaged to the bartender, so that’s how we ended up there. It was this sexy, dimly lit lounge with Medusa painted on the wall in vibrant colors right when you walked in. The contrast to the Rose felt palpable. It felt like a place where something could happen. 

The bartender poured me a mean cocktail with fresh squeezed citrus and I was content sitting at the bar not talking to anyone. I was thinking about that ticket to Mexico and how cocktails might not be $18. 

Then, you walked in. 

I tried not to stare. You were wearing a Keith Haring sweater vest and had fully tatted sleeves. Short, blonde curls. One dimple. Your skin was sunkissed, like you had been living a different kind of summer, one spent outside instead of hiding from the smoke. You carried this masculine energy but exuded softness. I had to look up to meet your eyes. They were cobalt blue. 

“Hi,” I reached out my hand. I couldn’t help it. 

Things around us slowed down. 

“What’s this one?” I asked, pointing to the pizza slice tattoo on your left arm.

“I like ninja turtles,” you said easily. 

I stopped paying attention, lost in your eyes and the way there was lightning when I touched your arm. 

You talked to me. I listened. There was this railing between us that you were leaning on. I thought maybe the railing was a good thing, considering the ticket to Mexico. I was sitting on a bar stool, holding my drink. I was not steady, but I tried to look it. 

I forgot about Olivia’s birthday, and the citrus. 

You told me about moving to Seattle from Texas. “The kid that got out”, you said, explaining that you felt there was something bigger out there for you. I stopped breathing.

You told me how your Jeep Wrangler got stolen in Central District. And what it was like to be a therapist. You told me about lightning bugs in the Texas summer hill country and never finishing your PhD. You told me about your dad, and how you miss him every day.  

You said, looking surprised, “I don’t usually tell people these things.”

The night blurred, but you stayed sharp. Your quick wit and the way you laughed nervously. It sounded like honey. 

“You look tan, all things considering,” I said in a failed attempt at flirting. 

“I just got back from Mexico.”

I let out an uncontrolled half laugh. “Oh, you’re serious”. Good god. A master at diverting, I changed the subject. 

You asked me if I was happy in Seattle.

I thought about my one-way ticket. I thought about the pizza slice. I thought about the way your skin felt electric and like peanut butter at the same time. I thought about rose quartz and the person I was trying to become; if she was chasing freedom or running away from a life built checking the boxes. I thought about the way the world came to a halt around us. 

“Well,” I said finally, a half-smile playing on my lips. “I wasn’t expecting this.”