Tattoo

CW-mental health, substance abuse, cursing, etc

“A fucking rose, Michelle? Like in that stupid, fucking movie you’re always making me watch?” his eyes narrowed at me until tiny, paper thin slits remained.

I swallowed hard and nodded back at him saying, “Whatever, it’s not my body.” Henry’s eyes widened and he returned to Antoinette’s Look Book filled with various designs and images of beautiful tattoos she’d already created and inked into the flesh of the many clients before us. I pulled my elastic mouth into a smile that reached the corners of my mouth, but not my eyes. My heart pounded in my chest and I wiped sweaty palms on my black skinny jeans—the ones he picked out at the mall for me to wedge my thick thighs into.

Antoinette turned her tablet to face me: a neat, little rose the width of two of my fingers floated beneath a dome. She asked, “What do you think?” Her big, icy blue eyes were full of depth despite clearly being colored contacts. A moment later, she laid the stencil on my right wrist. It felt a bit cool, but her warm, gloved fingers ran over the design, pressing it into my skin. She peeled back the paper and had me examine it. 

“Remember, I’ll be coloring a lot of the rose itself and adding some shadow to help make the dome clear to the eye,” her nail traced along the design as she explained her thought process. “Let me give you some time to think about it, ‘kay?” she said and spun in her backless black chair to face Henry. I heard them coo over her designs as I inspected mine—the gentle curves of the petals, the accent that the thorns provide, and the delicate-almost imperceptible-shadow of the dome. It made me smile.

Upon seeing this, Antoinette returned to my side. “Ready?” she asked, tattoo gun poised. I nodded and set my arm on the side rest provided. The blue medical paper beneath it crinkled each time I moved. I reached across the chair and grabbed Henry’s hand. 

Six months passed slowly and painfully like waiting for your next vaccine at the doctor’s office when you’re a kid. All you feel is fear. All you’re promised is more pain.

I wish I could say exactly how we fell apart…and when…and where…but I can’t.

Instead, I spent my days at work biting the heads off innocent customers and my nights crying myself to sleep—which came for approximately two hours before I woke up again with more tears in my eyes and the memory of Henry’s kiss on my lips. 

I found myself staring at that tattoo all day every day. I noticed it when I took a shower. I noticed it when I washed my hands after going to the bathroom. I noticed it when it flashed past my field of vision as I added concealer attempting to make me seem half as exhausted as I really was. 

I remembered, just so I could really feel the pain, when he sat at the edge of the bed-his long, black nail polished fingers as they played with the edge of my pretty pink bedspread which made him smile. I remembered, just so I could really feel the pain, the feeling of his hands on my hips as he pulled me onto his lap; and of course, his kiss which was deep and full of passion like in the movies. I remembered, just so I could really feel the pain, the way he made Mom laugh at all his jokes or the way he offered to do all the dishes. A small burst of pained laughter exited me at the thought of him blowing bubbles into my face. I wished I could watch it all over again, like a movie. Instead, my exhausted eyes fluttered closed so I could spend the night desperately chasing his ghost.

Antoinette had said we could come back and get our art retouched six to eight weeks after our first session, but that was about when things had started to fall apart. That week was the week Henry didn’t come to my high school graduation because he had gotten too drunk to function the night before. So I clutched my cell phone and stared at a blank screen through the whole ceremony. Mom was kind enough to not ask where he was. She just took me home and we ordered Chinese. She let me have a single, small, glass of wine. It burned and numbed the pain of Henry’s betrayal. I finally understood why he loved the stuff so much more than me. 

The next morning, I stared at the tattoo, noticing one of the petals was barely clinging to the stem. I blinked rapidly a few times because I was semi certain it was because my eyes had blurred over with tears. I took a big, deep breath and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I noticed the petals did seem precarious. I thought that wasn’t how Antoinette and I originally designed it. 

Once I got to work, Liza greeted me with a hug, the long kind that only she can give. Her dangly earrings, cool and metallic, brushed against my neck. “He’s not on shift today, I made sure,” she said, her voice was smooth and low like honey. It was the sexy voice that men melt for. I nodded and she kissed my forehead like a mother. Out of habit, I looked for remnants of Henry in the candy aisle, or the floral department, or The Deli. Did he stock those chocolate bars? Did he blow up those balloons or arrange that bouquet? Did he sit at “our table” during lunch? Liza interrupted my thoughts, bringing with her more greeting cards to be stocked. “He isn’t doing well, either, Meems,” she said and I could see her frown even though it’s pointed towards the box. “What happened?” she asked and she took my shaking hand. 

“He just didn’t want what I wanted,” I said. My voice didn't sound like my own. I was on autopilot. I wrenched my hand from hers to start grabbing more cards. I pretended to be looking for the card I needed to restock.

“We all know it was more than that,” she said. “We’re not idiots,” her voice turned a bit venomous. When I didn’t say anything back, she heaved a big sigh, used the box to stand up, and walked away. 

Both of my hands and all my strength was needed to push the big metal door open by the time clock and I smelled the familiar perfume of Liza’s cigarettes first. She was leaning against the wall puffing like a chimney. I joined her, leaned my foot against the wall, and stared at the sun. “Meems, he’s late every shift and that’s if he bothers to show at all. When he is here, the work isn’t getting done. He even,” Liza took a puff, “He even smells a bit.” My brows furrowed. Her brows furrowed. She took another puff.

“I can't be responsible for his happiness,” I said.

“Not saying you are,” she shook her head.

“Then what are you saying?” my words were biting and I was glad to not be looking at her green eyes right now.

“I’m not saying anything. I’m asking what the hell happened?” she angrily stamped out her cigarette. The silence I held with her was deafening.

“What does he say?” I demand after a minute. “I mean, have you asked him?”

“He says you broke up with him,” she turned on her heel and the door slammed shut. I felt more tears. The back of my eyelids played the scene of me standing in that little red dress in the middle of his living room. My hair was in beach waves. I was wearing my very best perfume and I had reapplied my red lipstick three different times. He had promised me a nice date to make up for graduation. And there was Henry. Passed out on the couch. The stench of booze and weed swirling in the air. I grabbed a napkin and wrote WE’RE OVER. I guess he found it in the morning. 

I headed back to work, dragging myself through four more hours before making the long drive home. When I stopped at the light to turn home, I saw another scene play out. His hands were on my hips as he lifted me over a big puddle. His lips were on mine for the very first time. The memory made me smile as a car honked at me. The light turned green. 

The next day, I spent the two hours before work started in my PJs blaring heartbreak songs alone in my living room. The tattoo blossomed in my mind’s eye. I raised my arm up…there was a petal that had fallen from the rose. I sat straight up. I knew we didn’t design the thing to actually look like it was dying. It was just meant to allude to the film, not be an exact copy! I blinked quickly and rubbed my wrist on the white carpet of the living room. I rubbed and rubbed, ‘til the skin felt hot and a bit raw. When I looked at it again, I noticed a second petal had fallen. My ears filled with pounding blood and my heart felt like it was cracking as I desperately replayed memories with Antoinette. But the thoughts weren’t stringing together. It felt like when I was a kid and I broke my necklace from my grandmother and the pearls crashed to the kitchen floor. Even though I spent hours combing the floor, I knew I was missing one.

When I got to work, I made a beeline for the floral department where Liza stood with a customer. I loomed over them, impatiently waiting. Liza’s green eyes kept flicking up at me. She finally convinced the customer to go with a dozen roses and hissed at me, “What?” 

“My tattoo has changed,” I told her while shoving my wrist in her face. 

“What?” She starts marching to the back. 

“Look!” I pulled on her arm like a child until she faced me. I showed her the photo on my phone from social media that I had discovered on the car ride over and my wrist. 

“What…the…” she studied both intensely. Her hands held me in a death grip. “Are you sure this wasn’t the photo you took during the tattoo process?”

“Yes! It was from inside Henry’s apartment. See?” I grabbed at the phone and zoomed out so she could see Henry’s front end table. 

“That’s trippy,” was all she could manage. We were interrupted by another customer and I was called to assist the cashiers up front. I received a text promising a follow up conversation during lunch. 

I rushed to the front end where I spent the next hour and a half staring at the rose while pretending to check expiration dates on candy bars. 

“Pssssttt,” hissed Liza. She jabbed a finger at the backroom door and I followed her through. We clocked out, grabbed our lunches from the fridge, and walked briskly to the one table outside. It was empty. Relief filled both of us and she said, “Fate is on our side. Now, let me see that damn flower.” Her cold, bony fingers wrapped around my wrist. She held it to the light, cupped her other hand around the image in case it changed in the shadow. Before she could ask, I slid my phone with the photo of the flower from the first day across the table toward her. She held it and my wrist up to the sun. She cupped a hand around my wrist, then around the photo.

Finally she concluded, “Well, fuck me, it’s definitely different.” I frowned and furrowed my brow as she spun around the bench of the table so her feet could lay flat and her knees could be pulled up. She set her cheek down on her left knee like a fairy in a forest. 

“Fuck me,” I echoed while staring down at the flower. My vision seemed to blur at the edges. I furiously blinked. I closed my eyes tight. The image of Henry laughing at one of my cheesy jokes played in my mind. My cheeks remembered the way his hands felt so warm and firm when they brought my lips to him for a long, slow kiss. The kind girls dream about. I opened my eyes slowly. A third petal had fallen. I wasn’t hungry so I stood, shoved my wrist in Liza’s face, and marched away. 

I vaguely heard her say, “Fuck me.” My phone didn’t stop buzzing for the rest of my shift. All notifications because of texts from Liza. She wanted to know if the tattoo had changed. She thought we needed to take more pictures and I complied begrudgingly. Then, it went dead silent as we both went home for the day. Liza’s last text of the night came in just as I drifted off to sleep: What if it’s about him? I mean, he misses you. 

My dreams were plagued by memories of Henry. But he was mad now. Mad like he used to get at the end of two weeks, right before we got paid, because the cash is gone which meant so was the high. In the dream memory I was telling him I don’t have anything left to spare. And he was screaming that I must be lying. And I was swearing that I’m not. He seemed to grow to the height of a skyscraper as he stomped across the kitchen. I woke up in a cold sweat.

I didn’t have work, but lied to myself saying I should pick up some milk and eggs. My blood pressure rose with each mile I drove to the store. Hot, sticky sweat covered my palms at every red light and saliva flooded my mouth at the sight of Henry’s beat up truck sitting in the lot. I could have turned around. The car was still running and I had pulled into a spot far away from his truck and the entrance. 

The AC whooshed around me and I made a beeline to the dairy section, avoiding the floral section. I snagged the gallon of whole milk with its red lid out of the fridge. I slammed that door shut, too. Self check out seemed like a good bet and I was furiously trying to open my bank app to see if I had enough funds when I crashed into a human.

The first thing I smelled was his cologne. Then, I studied his beat up tennis shoes and recognized long legs in black skinny jeans. Huh, he was still wearing the belt I got him for his birthday. He cleared his throat and went left. I scooted right. So he dove right. As I danced left. We were trapped in the worst waltz imaginable. My eyes were glued to the white tile of the store because I just knew his eyes would hypnotize me into forgetting the whole thing. Into taking him back. 

“Mimi,” he said. The world faded to black, just like in the movies. I looked up, my shoulder aching from the way the weight of the milk pulled my whole arm down. His eyes were red rimmed. They carried luggage you wouldn’t be allowed to categorize as carry on with any airline in the world. 

“Henry,” I said. I took a shuddering breath, feeling all of the fear of the day dissipate. He smiled. It was a long, crooked grin full of not so straight white teeth. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he chose his words carefully. “I have something for you,” he continued. I couldn’t breathe. The milk pulled me down to earth with wrath. The words to tell him about the tattoo and the petals were stuck in my throat. Henry’s eyes didn’t leave mine as one hand reached into his back pocket. He used his right hand to pull the one not holding milk towards him. His grin remained eerily in place. He uncurled my fingers. I hadn’t realized they were in a fist. He pressed a white envelope into my palm and leaned down. A soft kiss was placed on my wrist, right on the tattoo. 

Just as quickly as he came, he departed. Henry seemed to disappear as the elevator music of the store returned. I found myself in a haze as I made my way to an open register, rang up my milk, and paid for it. When I returned to my car, I didn't open the envelope. I stuck it in my glovebox and drove home. For the first time in months, I did so in silence. 

When I got home, I ran a nail beneath the seal of the letter. It seemed intolerably loud to do so. A lone sheet of lined notebook paper was enclosed. I recognized Henry’s crooked handwriting: Been thinking we’re no good without each other. Wanna get back together? Check Yes or No. Return to Liza. 

The letter fell on my desk. The words seem to swirl around me. Suddenly nauseous, I made a beeline to the bathroom. Gripping both sides of my porcelain throne, I vomited the contents of my stomach, which wasn’t much.

At the sink, I splashed cold water on my face and noticed the girl in the mirror. Her hair was a greasy rat’s nest tamed into a lame messy bun. Her skin was pasty. Her lips were cracked and bloody. A permanent red hue filled her nose and cheeks. As I looked her over, I noticed her tattoo in the reflection of the mirror. As I pulled it close for investigation, a realization slapped me across the face.

The flower wasn’t Henry. Henry wasn't dying. I was.