Does It Hurt? (4)

“Thank you,” I say, waving away the smoke. “Do you want one?”

“Sure,” he says. I hand him a cigarette and watch him closely as he lights his own, an orange glow blaring as he inhales.

“Been trying to cut back on smoking but can never seem to let ’em go for good,” he muses conversationally.

A terrible problem to have, and one I shouldn’t inflict on myself, but then a wave of euphoria washes over me, and I suppose it’s not so bad. It won’t last more than a minute, however it makes the sharp edge bearable, and that’s all I need right now. That, and good company.

“When have we ever been able to let go of the things that hurt us most?” I mutter.

“Well, you got me there.”

I grin. “What’s your name?” I ask, attempting to blow out a smoky O but failing miserably.

He chuckles, the sound husky. “Can’t remember the last time a pretty young lady asked me my name. Name’s Simon.”

Normally, an old, strange man calling me pretty would have me getting up and walking away without a backward glance, but the way he says it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. In fact, it makes me feel a little like what a home is supposed to feel like. Warm and welcoming. Safe.

That sense of comfort lulls me into doing something I rarely do. Something I never do. I give him my real name.

“Sawyer. Thanks for keeping me company, Simon.”

A beat of silence passes, and then, “Want to see my new tattoo?”

Surprise has me pausing for a brief second, the cigarette suspended halfway to my mouth before I shoot out a quick, “I’d love to,” and then trap the filter in the corner of my lips.

He rolls up his cargo shorts and shows me his new ink. Black, uneven lines make up the words “Fuck You” stacked in the middle of his thigh, still puffy and irritated. This time, I genuinely am caught off guard.

Astonished laughter bursts from my throat, and I almost lose my cigarette in the process, but I wouldn’t have cared if I did.

“Oh my God, I love that. Probably more than my favorite toe. Did that hurt?” I ask, leaning closer to inspect the ink. It’s obviously not professionally done—in fact, it’s a pretty shit job—but I think that’s what I like most about it.

“Nah,” he says, waving a hand. “It’s therapeutic. Not sure what you mean by a favorite toe, though.”

I hold up my left foot and point to it. “My pinkie toe is really cute, don’t you think?”

He leans over and inspects it closely. “You’re right. I like that toe, too.”

Smiling, I drop my foot and stare down at the misshapen words. I’m in love with it. I could always use a little therapy in the form of a reckless—and slightly manic—decision.

I suck in another mouthful of smoke and blow it out, trying to fight the impulse rising inside of me.

“Where did you get that?”

He shrugs. “I did it myself. Ever heard of tebori?”

I shake my head, so he digs in his pocket and pulls out a vial of black ink and a handful of sealed needles.

I raise my brows, wondering why he would carry this stuff with him, but glad that he’s at least using unused needles.

“It’s a traditional Japanese method. People call ’em stick and poke tattoos,” he explains.

“How does it work?”

He explains the process to me, which sounds pretty simple. So simple, that I consider doing one myself. I don’t have any tattoos nor the luxury of going to a shop and paying for one.

Just as I open my mouth to ask where he got the supplies from, he cuts in, “You want me to do one for you?”

I cock my head at him, a grin clawing its way up my cheeks.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head, deciding the idea of a stranger giving me a tattoo at a bus stop is too good to pass up. It’s the perfect kind of spontaneity I need. “What do you want for it?”

He nods toward my plastic bag. “That pack of cigs will be enough.”

The look he casts me gives me the distinct feeling that he’s more interested in keeping me from smoking them rather than smoking them himself. I wonder if he noticed what else was in the bag.

I smile. “Deal. I want one just like yours. Same place, too. We can match.”

I like the idea of having a matching tattoo with Simon. I guess it makes me feel like I’ve found a friend in my lonely little world and will have someone to remember when I eventually leave.

More importantly, I like the message. Because really, those exact words cross my mind every day. What better phrase to get tattooed than my daily mantra?

He grins, showcasing slightly crooked teeth, and motions for me to turn my thigh toward him. Cutoff shorts are my everyday attire here, so he’ll be able to put one in the same place as his easily.

The bus is approaching, so we’ll miss our ride, but another bus will show up in thirty minutes—plenty of time to get my first tattoo.

He uncaps the vial and pours out a tiny bit of inky black liquid into the lid, and then tears open the package with a new needle.

“Octopus ink,” he tells me. “Best ink you can get.”

I nod, though I don’t necessarily care. Everything about this is unsanitary anyway. If my body rejects it, it will make a pretty cool scar. Though I’ve always really liked octopi, so I guess it’ll be nice to have a part of them injected into me.