INKED. Part II

He said he would tattoo “forever” on my back and every morning when he got up he would see it and remember. I said forever seems like an awfully long time. I preferred “for today.

That way he could see it every morning and try to get through the day. It wouldn’t seem so hard to love someone for just one day, so he would get it right. And the next morning, just one day wouldn’t feel like much either, and he’d get it right again. He said my back was already pretty full, so he wouldn’t tattoo me after all.

You know? one thing I absolutely love is having my hair played with. I especially loved it when he was the one doing the playing. I used to tell him, “Play with my hair,” and he would do it. But one night I asked him: Would you play with my hair? And he wouldn’t. He was texting someone and didn’t seem to be listening, or maybe he was ignoring me. He was probably texting Tom. I twisted my finger in a lock of hair and played with it myself. But I missed his touch. I missed him. And so it began. The misplacements became more frequent. He was like a curious puppy, and I suppose his friend Tom was shiny and attractive.

He got HIV. He told me: “Well, there was a risk in doing ink after all”. “Tom is positive,” I quickly pointed out, “just saying. He turned pale. He didn’t know. He didn’t know that Tom had it, and he didn’t know that I knew. I knew Tom got it and I knew he was doing Tom. I laughed at him. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known he’d be dead in three months. The laughing and not warning him, I mean. I was hurt. I was wrong.

Well, go on with the show. So long and good night. But I couldn’t laugh for long. Not when the first tear rolled down his eye. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered, and he looked so young, so painfully young. And he looked so mine, so desperately mine. I moved closer to him on the bed we were both on, and I held his head on my chest. The tears soaked my cold skin and blurred my vision. I kissed the wetness of his face. The salty sorrow of his remorse. I kissed the corner of his mouth and the taste of it excited me. The tobacco, the tears and the pain. Sweet and desperate. He kissed me back and opened his mouth just a little above my lips. His tongue warmed my doubts and his hands sent shivers down my revenge. “I love you,” he said, pressing his mouth to the softness of my neck. “I know,” and I did. But that didn’t make it any better. And you want to know what? At that moment I didn’t care. I needed him to fill all my holes. And I needed more tattoos. Of course, we shared the needle. Now I am complete. There is disease in my veins, ink on my skin and love in my heart. There are stars in my eyes and yes, he plays with my hair again.

Some will say it was suicide. But you and I both know how the story ends.

The end.