Page 46 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

“I know what permanent means.”

He looks back down at the sketch, and nods. “You’re the muse. It deserves to be on your skin.”

I’m the muse?I mean, I guessed, but him just saying it out loud like that?—

“Yeah?” I swallow hard, trying not to be impacted more than I should be. If you think about it, all clients are a muse of sorts. They ask for a piece, and he draws it.

Except, I didn’t ask for this, and he drew it because he saw something in me that I’m only starting to glimpse in myself. But he saw what I’mtryingto live into even though I’m still terrified every moment that I’m doing the wrong thing and?—

“It’s right for you.” He says it simply, like it’s just a fact.

I clear my throat. “Where would you put it?”

“Where do you want it?”

I think about it. “Somewhere I can see it,” I say.

I want to be reminded every day of how he sees me. Because this is how I want to see myself all the time.

Strong and able to scream on the outside and powerful.

He nods, slowly. “Inner forearm,” he says. “Or upper arm. Depending on size.”

“Inner forearm,” I say, and then reiterate. “I want to be able to look at it.”

He pulls on a fresh pair of gloves and sets up with the efficiency of someone who has done this ten thousand times. I prop my phone on a little stand I’ve made from a stack of tattoo magazines.

I angle the phone to catch his hands and my arm in frame. I have strictly professional reasons for recording this. Not so I can watch it back later over and over and over for myself, his face bent so intently and focused over my arm.

“Ready?” he says.

“Yes,” I say, before I can think about it.

The first touch of the needle isn’t what I expected.

It feels almost like a little zapping burn that makes me jump and yelp. Neither is very dignified.

August’s hand pauses.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” I look at the ceiling, and breathe out through my nose. “Keep going.”

“You can tell me to stop.”

“I know I can. I don’t want to.” I make myself look down at what he’s doing—at his hands, at the line beginning to appear on my skin—and something steadies in me. “I’m okay. Keep going.”

He does.

It hurts. I want to be accurate about this: it really, really hurts.

Like a weird burning line that somehow connects to my stomach muscles in little spasms. But underneath the pain is something else.

A kind of aliveness. It feels similar to the cold plunge in the pool, as it turns out. It’s not a pleasurable feeling exactly, but I do feel very, very…present.

I am here.

I am in my body.