I look directly at her boobs and lick my lips. Then I reach out and drag one finger down the slope of her breast. Here? I mouth.
I don’t even see it coming. Her tiny fist slams into my nose. I’ve had girls slap me before, but I’ve never had one punch me in the face. Fuck, that hurt. The wet, coppery taste of blood slides over my lips, and I reach up to wipe it away. My nose is gushing. Paul thrusts a towel in my hands and tilts my head back.
Fuck, that hurts. He presses the bridge of my nose, and I can’t see his mouth or his hands over the bunched-up towel, so I have no idea if he’s talking to me. Or if he’s just laughing his ass off. He lifts the towel, but blood trickles down over my lips again. I see her standing there for a brief second, her fists clenched at her sides as she watches me suffer.
Shit, that hurts.
Then she turns on the heels of her black boots and walks away. I want to call out to her to get her to stay. I would say I’m sorry, but I can’t. I can’t call her back to me. I start to rise, but Paul shoves me back into the chair. Sit down, he signs. I think it might be broken.
I see a piece of paper on the floor and it’s crumpled. I take the towel from Paul and press it to my nose, pointing to the piece of paper. He picks it up and looks at it. “Did she drop this?” he asks.
I nod. It’s damp from her sweaty palms. I unfold it and look down. It’s an intricate design, and you have to look hard to find the hidden pictures. I see a guitar, the strings broken and sticking out at odd angles. At the end of the strings are small blossoms. I turn the picture, looking over the towel I’m still holding to my nose with one hand. Paul replaces it with a clean one. My nose is still bleeding. Son of a bitch. I look closer at the blossoms. They’re not blossoms at all. They’re teeny, tiny shackles. Like handcuffs but more medieval. Most people would see the beauty of that drawing. But I see pain. I see things she probably wouldn’t want anyone to see.
Shit. I f**ked up. Now I want more than anything to know what this tat means. It’s obviously more than just a pretty drawing. Just like she might be more than just a pretty face. Or she might not be. She might be a bitch with a mean right hook that will eat my balls for lunch if I look at her the wrong way.
I spin the drawing in my hands and look around the shop. It’s late, and no one is waiting. I punch Paul in the shoulder and point to the drawing. Then I point to the inside of my own wrist. It’s the only place on my whole arm that’s not tatted up already. I have full sleeves because my brothers have been practicing on me since long before it was legal to do so.
No, Paul signs with first two fingers and his thumb, slapping them together. You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m going to put that on you.
He walks toward the front of the store and sits down beside Friday. He’s been trying to get in her pants since she started here. It’s too bad she has a girlfriend.
I get out my supplies. I’ve done more intricate tats on myself. I can do this one.
He stalks back to the back of the shop where I’m setting up. “I’ll run it,” he says. “You’re going to do it anyway.”
I hold up one finger. One change.
What do you want to change? He looks down at the design, and his brow furrows as he takes in the shapes and the colors, the handcuffs and the guitar and the prickly thorns. And I wonder if he also sees her misery. That’s some heavy shit, he signs. He signs a lot when it’s just me and him. I’m kind of glad. It’s like we speak the same language when we’re alone.
I nod, and I start prepping my arm with alcohol as he gloves up.
Emily
It has been two days since I punched that ass**le in the tattoo shop, and my hand still hurts. I’ve been busking in the subway tunnel by Central Park, and it’s somewhat more difficult to play my guitar when my hand feels like it does. But this tunnel is one of my favorite spots because the kids stop to listen to me. They like the music, and it makes them smile. Smiling is something leftover from my old life. I don’t get to do it much, and I enjoy it even less. But I like it when the kids look up at me with all that innocence and they grin. There’s so much promise in their faces. It reminds me of how I used to be, way back when.
I’m considering singing today. I don’t do it every time I play, but I am seriously low on funds. The more attention I get, the more change I’ll get to take home with me. Home is a relative term. Home is wherever I find to sleep that night.
I’m sitting on the cold cement floor of the tunnel, back a ways from the rush of feet with my guitar case open in front of me. In it, there are some quarters, and a little old lady stopped a few minutes ago and tossed in a fiver while I played “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Old ladies usually like that one. They haven’t seen troubled waters.
I’m wearing my school-girl outfit, too, because I get more attention from men when I wear it. It’s a short plaid skirt and a black ribbed short sleeve top that fits me like a second skin. Ladies don’t seem to mind it, and men love it. I sure got a lot of attention from that ass**le two days ago. He was hot, I had to admit. He had shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway and a head full of sandy-blond curls. He towered over me when he stood up from behind that table, at least a head and shoulders taller than me. Tattoos filled up all the empty space that used to be his forearms, and it was kind of hot. He had lips painted on his left arm, and I wanted to ask him what those were. Were they to remember someone? A first kiss, maybe? Or did they mean something the way the tattoo I wanted did?