“What tattoo are you getting?” I asked as I drove her down to the shop. Downtown Dallas was awash with shoppers, joggers, and people walking their dogs.
“Promise not to laugh.” But she didn’t look concerned about my opinion. Also, shestilldidn’t say jack-shit about last night.
“Don’t give yourself too much credit. I’m a hard man to entertain.”
She produced a piece of paper from her secondhand Gucci bag, handing it over to me. It was a drawing of an anatomically correct heart, made out of a diamond. It looked morbid, real, and surprisingly compelling, even though tattoos weren’t my jam. I handed it back to her.
“Where?”
“Hipbone.”
“Does it represent something?”
“Sometimes I feel like my heart is as hard as a diamond. Or should be, to survive my life.”
This was the part where I mocked her for her hardship, while balancing a 3k bag in her lap. But baiting her was getting old, not to mention all of her shit was secondhand. In fact, I didn’t know a lot of women who rummaged through trash the way she did to take care of the environment. No. Hallie’s lack of employment and direction didn’t come from laziness.
Instead, I asked, “Did you draw this yourself?”
It was surprising both because I didn’t normally show that I gave a damn and because I didn’t realize she had any talents other than pissing me off.
“Yes.”
“You’re not terrible.”
“Lofty praise coming from you.”
I let her lay in the puddle of her own thoughts for a while, knowing she was incapable of keeping her mouth shut for more than five minutes.
Sure enough, two seconds later, she sighed audibly and said, “Sometimes I worry.”
“About?”
“That I’m too numb. I think I love tattoos not only because it’s easy to hide behind them, but because…well, the pain gives me an excuse to feel.”
“Pain’s not a feeling,” I corrected her. “This is why you keep getting inked. You’re searching for a feeling, but you’re not getting it.”
“What do you mean? Of course pain is a feeling.” She turned to face me, and I swear the temperature in my body rose a couple degrees. Goddammit. I had to bang a Hallie lookalike and get rid of my stupid fixation with her. This was ridiculous. And dangerous. And putting a strain on my cock, which wasn’t used to being erect nineteen hours a day.
“No. It’s a sensation. There’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference?” Her eyes were two sapphire saucers, directed at me.
“A feeling is an emotional state. A sensation speaks to your nervous system.”
“How do I fix this?” she demanded.
“You don’t.”
“Imust,” she insisted. “Tell me how.”
“Do I look like a shrink?” I snapped.
“No, but you charge more than one, so you should go the extra mile.”
I didn’t answer that. Getting life advice from my ass was as good as celibacy tips from a whore.
“And what about you?” she redirected. “Do you have feelings or sensations?”