Page 5 of Tears of Ink

“Hey.” His fingers catch mine and he turns me around. Honestly, he looked so much better after three large wines. This morning, what was an olive-skinned charm is more swarthy and blotchy. Got to turn those beer goggles off, Faith. “We had fun, didn’t we?” he asks, oblivious to my critical observations.

“Sure. I’m just busy, you know? It’s nearly the end of term. I’ve got lots of finals to complete.”

“And you’re doing an art degree?”

“Fine Art,” I clarify. I must have told him that on the way home. I don’t remember much conversation taking place once we walked through the apartment door.

His eyes drop to my skin. “And you don’t want to be a tattoo artist?”

I level him with a stern gaze. Whatever happened to not judging a book by its cover. “No.”

“What are all these? Why so many?”

I hold my breath as his fingers graze along the coloured ink across my skin. “Just thoughts and observations.” And lessons, but I don’t tell him that.

“That’s some observation.” He smiles, but I see right through it. In his eyes is half panic that he’s woken up with a crazed tattooed lunatic, and part desire that I might be willing to submit myself to him like I did last time.

I won’t.

“This has been great, but you need to leave now.” My lips stretch into a tight smile. No messing with the shit I’m telling him. My message is clear. It doesn’t stop him trying though, his hand snakes around my upper arm.

“Come on, babe. I showed you a good time.”

I step back, my hand reaching for the catch of the front door. The apartment is cramped and small. Nothing is further than one reach, or one step away. “Real good, but now it’s over.”

He stares in shock before shrugging. “You’ve got problems.”

I open the door and swing it open, waving my hand toward the dingy corridor. “Yep, and you leaving makes one less.”

I shut the door, listening to his mumble about the “crazy bitch” as he walks away. I chuckle. He wasn’t complaining about it last night when we were going for it, two strangers tangled in the dark.

It’s just a physical release.

I go back to the kitchenette and think about my encounter. Unremarkable, our enjoyment had been one-sided as are so many of my moments of intimacy.

It’s a craving which lives deep under my skin. A need for touch, warmth, delicacy. But when I get it, it’s never quite what I hope for.

And, as always, I’m left washing away a flavour of bitterness with my morning coffee.

I drain my mug, scorching my tongue, then walk to the small bathroom. Compact but relatively clean—for me. I switch on the shower, yanking the old-fashioned curtain back before stepping into the tub. The hot water works on my muscles and I finally wake up. My skin bears no marks from the night, though even if it did they wouldn’t show. The suds from my shampoo run down my arms and I find myself glancing at the lightning bolt on my wrist. I touch it as if it’s still going to burn hot and tender. It’s old, its edges faded. My eyes close and I breathe in the steam. It was a long time ago, and I don’t have to remember those times anymore. I shut off the dream that chased me awake. All those days are in the past, and I don’t need to worry about them anymore.

I’m untouchable here.

Towelling off and scrunching my hair with the rough cotton, I think of Gerard’s suggestion for the summer. Could I do something like that? He’s right about one thing: I don’t plan to go home.

I’m pulling a pair of black skinny jeans up my hips, noticing the waistband seems looser again, when my phone rings. I glance in the mirror. Dressed just in jeans and my bra I’m a sight to be held. I grab at the black baggy shirt and pull it on before grabbing the phone. My heart pounds at the flashing screen.

“Hey.”

“What are you thinking of that old lightning bolt for?” A deep voice rumbles down the other end of the line and a squeeze constricts my chest.

“You okay? You sound out of breath.”

“Hey, don’t be rude.” A hearty chuckle turns into a phlegmy cough. “You got to be kind to your old Uncle Al.”

“I’m always kind.” I slip my feet into some ballet pumps and check my keys are in my bag. I’ll have to walk and talk. I haven’t got time to be anywhere apart from at the studio and staring at that lump of nemesis. “Tell me the truth,” I insist.

“I’m fine. Tell me why you were thinking of your bolt.”