I smile wide, showing him all my teeth.
“You fucking bet I am.”
He chuckles and pulls out a plastic bag with ink and unopened needles.
“What will you be getting today, on this fine Tuesday morning?”
I hadn’t realized what day it is, and it feels a little like déjà vu. Three and a half months ago, I met Simon at this bus stop on a Tuesday and got my first tattoo. I’ve come full circle, except I’m a completely different person than I was then.
I was sad, broken, and barely surviving.
And now, I’m still a little broken, but it doesn’t feel so bad to be alive anymore. And while I’ll always have the reminders of what happened to me etched into the inside of my brain, at least I’ll be able to look forward now, instead of looking back.
“I want a cactus,” I say finally.
He pauses, glancing up at me with raised brows.
“A cactus,” he echoes. “Why a cactus?”
I shrug. “They’re strong and resilient, and survive under extreme conditions.”
My friend juts out his bottom lip, considering that.
“Oh, and they don’t harm a fly unless you fuck with them.”
That pulls another full-bellied laugh from Simon.
“A cactus,” he repeats again with a chuckle, shaking his head almost in wonder.
“That’s who I am now—who I choose to be. A cactus.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he says. “Where do you want it?”
I unstrap my brace, hold out my arm, and point to my wrist. “Right there, please.”
Smiling, Simon grabs my wrist and lays it flat on his thigh. After unwrapping the needle and dipping the tip into his jar of octopus ink, he gets to work, and I watch in comfortable silence as the misunderstood plant slowly forms.
It hurts like hell, but pain always comes before beauty. How else would we appreciate it?
“Done,” he announces twenty minutes later, straightening so I can inspect my wrist.
“It’s so fucking cute, Simon,” I proclaim, smiling at the misshapen cactus on my wrist. “If only you could do this with a cactus needle.”
He guffaws. “Don’t think there are any cacti ’round here. But you find one, and I’ll do ya next time with one.”
“You’re going to dowhatto her?”
My eyes widen, and I turn to find Enzo storming toward us, a frown marring his face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling a lot like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“I was heading to the bait shop and happened to see a little blonde thief sitting at a bus stop.”
“Well, hey now—”
“It’s okay,” I cut Simon off, placing my hand on top of his. “He’s a grump, but he’s my grump.”
Simon glances at me before settling back on Enzo’s fierce expression.