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 ateboritattoo 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.
I feel bad for the pain I caused him, and he must note the expression on my face because he shoots me a stern look, much like how a father would when scolding their child. “Don’t you feel bad for me, young lady. It’s a blessing to be old, and every blessing is a little bittersweet.”
I still feel bad, but I nod and lean down to examine my tattoo. My thigh is bright red and irritated, amplifying the harsh lines.
Fuck You, in bold black letters, though mine looks a little neater than his. Regardless, they’re still uneven and wobbly, and I’m relieved about it. That’s why I love it so much.
“It’s perfect.”
“Imperfect,” he corrects, eyeing his work.
“Perfectly imperfect,” I compromise, smiling big at him. My cheeks hurt from how widely they’re being stretched, but just like every time that needle poked through my skin, the pain feels good. “All the best things are.”
He lights another cig and leans back like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Simon looks like he’s lived his life very thoroughly, and I want to know what led him to this bus stop, giving a strange girl a tattoo on a Tuesday afternoon.
“You’re right,” he concedes. “You’re also very strange.” I grin wider when he echoes my exact thoughts.
“So are you, Simon. So are you.” The look we share speaks volumes—we’re both content with being strange.
Right then, the bus pulls up, the engine rumbling loudly. When the doors hiss and then glide open, I stand up and offer my elbow to him, as if I’m escorting him to a ball.
He waves his hand, shooing me on.
“I prefer to walk. My old bones need the movement, or else they’ll lock up forever.”
My brows draw in. “Then why were you sitting at the bus stop?”
He shrugs. “I was passing by, and you looked like you needed a friend.”
Dropping my elbow, a weird piercing feeling stabs me in the chest. Disappointment.
I wanted to talk to Simon more. Ask him questions and learn more about the man behind the worn clothes and octopus ink.
He’s observant, too, once more noting the expression on my face. Or maybe I just wear my feelings on my sleeve too much.