“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.
They can disappear so easily, camouflage themselves to blend in with their surroundings, and that’s all I’ve really wanted in life. Maybe with this new tattoo, I can pretend that its ink corroded everything that makes me human and will allow me to disappear just like them.
I frown, knowing it’s never like the movies where a lonely kid gains an incredible superpower. I think I resent octopi a little, too.
My new friend leans down close to my thigh, his brown eyes never straying from his task as his surprisingly steady hand meticulously pokes ink into my skin. The sharp pinpricks release all kinds of endorphins into my system, and I decide here, and now, that I’m addicted to tattoos.
This is better than cigarettes, though since they’re his now, he does allow me to smoke one more during the process. To take the edge off, he says.
A few more people join us, and it makes me laugh when none of them look the least bit surprised to see a girl getting a tebori tattoo while waiting for the bus, as if this is a common occurrence in Port Valen. One guy even comes over and asks for one of his own, but Simon tells him to find him another day.
The whole experience is odd, but it’s brought me happiness, and that foreign feeling is better than sex. I experience so little joy, and too often, strange men crowd over me and invade my body.
Most importantly, it’s made me forget.
Twenty-five minutes later, Simon straightens up, his face contorting in pain and his back cracking from being locked in an uncomfortable position for so long.