She bites her lip. “Never mind.”
“How, what, and where?”
“It’s averylong story.”
I check an invisible watch. “Oh, I have time.”
“Okay. Well, I got drunk, then... I got a tattoo.” She exhales, folds her hands demurely in her lap.
I’m not letting her off that easy. “You already told me that. I’m going to need details, I’m afraid.”
She chews her lip again. Tucks a wayward strand of hair back into her plait. “Well, I had it in my head that I wanted a bird... but I was drunk, and I couldn’t quite get across what I meant. I wanted a swallow—it was supposed to be elegant, and beautiful. Delicate, you know? I tried to draw it for them, but I’m aterribleartist and...”
“Where is it?”
“On my hip.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Can I see it?”
“Okay, but you can’t laugh.”
“I promise.”
She lowers the waistband of her jeans just enough.
I look down at it. Then up at her. “It’s a... Wow.”
“I know.”
Itisa swallow. I think. But if it is, it’s on steroids. Bright red and blue, and unexpectedly sizable. Hearty and plump, with cartoon curves. There’s a blank scroll in its beak, and an intensity to its expression I can only presume to be accidental.
Or maybe her tattooist was high at the time.
“It’s quite... I mean, it’s...”
Her eyes go wide. “You don’t need to be nice about it, honestly. I cried when I saw it sober. I started desperately Googling laser tattoo removal, vowed never to do anything daring again.”
“What was supposed to”—I clear my throat—“go in the scroll?”
“Oh, they thought I wanted that for someone’s name. I’m surprised they didn’t just make something up, stick it in there without asking.”
“Christ. The mind boggles.”
She doffs me with a cushion. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not. I think it’s charming.”
“It’s not charming. It’s graffiti that won’t wash off. I’m building up to going back, having it lasered.”
I reach out, take her hand. “I think you should be proud of it. Sod lasering the thing. It’s part of your story.”
She starts laughing, lips pink and full from the press of her teeth. “Are you serious?”
“Too right. You did something crazy, brave. You should see that tattoo and feel nothing but happiness.” I glance down at her hip again. But it’s when I look back up at her that I feel happiness: the full, synaptic rush of it. “Keep doing crazy stuff,” I say, squeezing her hand.
“Really? Crazy like this tattoo?”
I grin. “Why not? So long as it’s a good kind of crazy.Yourkind of crazy.”
