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| "So. Have you seen Sean's new tattoo?" Cindi asked, stretching out the gum in her mouth, a thin, pink exclamation point to her question. "It's kind of a cross between a snake and a dragon -- all big blue wings and golden head and fire coming out of the mouth. I drew some designs like that last week, you know, fantasy type stuff and--" Sasha wasn't having any of it. Adopting an air of disinterested distraction, she pushed herself from the rickety wicker chair and stood looking at her reflection in the shop's plate glass. "Of course I saw it," she snarled. "I was with him when he got it. I didn't think it was so great, though. The colors are all -- I don't know -- muddy or something. They were pretty going in, but his skin or something must of clashed with 'em. I don't think that tattoo artist knew diddly about what he was doing." Cindi scuffed her sneakers on the tile floor. She thought how that was just like Sasha, always one-upping her, always finding something more interesting to say. She wanted to tell her that, tell her to lighten up, give her a break. Instead, she tried to catch the eye of the guy behind the counter. "Hey! Hey, buddy! How much longer before our car's done?" The mechanic looked up from his paperwork, his grey regulation shirt already sweat-stained from his efforts. He gave Cindi a quick glare and shot a glance at his watch. "Probably about twenty minutes. But that's no kind of guarantee or anything." Sasha turned toward him then, tugged on her skirt and smoothed on her most seductive smile. "Excuse me. Have you got a ladies room around here? I need to freshen up." Her charm was intact. The guy softened into a smile. "Sure, lady. Right around the corner. Want me to show you?" Triumph tinged her grin. "Nah. Thanks anyway. I think I can find it." She shimmied herself into motion and clicked across the floor. Cindi watched her go, then scowled her disappointment toward the always-on, always-fuzzy television in the corner. Some talk show hostess -- she couldn't remember the name, they changed so often nowadays -- was talking with a beady-eyed alarmist about the dangers of role-playing computer games on youngsters. "Damnation," Cindi whispered, echoing the sentiments of the TV guest. Pleased with the feel of the word in her mouth, she whispered again. "Damnation on you, Sasha. How come you've always got to be so smart and so pretty?" Cindi risked a glance at the counter guy. With Sasha's departure, he'd melted back into his papers. Sighing, she caught her reflection in the window. Nothing she saw raised her spirits any. Medium. That's what she was. Medium height, medium build, medium-length, medium-brown hair. Even her drawings, the secret places she retreated, even those were probably just medium. They certainly didn't impress Sasha the one time she'd hesitantly showed her. She sighed again. "It isn't fair." She blew a bubble and let it pop all over her lips. Sasha returned at that, a return that the counter guy noticed in spite of the papers in front of him. Cindi watched as he watched Sasha, a chain of dark thoughts tumbling like a child's game of "Telephone." Right on cue, the intercom buzzed and an unintelligible voice delivered a message the counter guy nevertheless understood. "Yeah, yeah. Okay," he barked, punched a button and turned his attention to his customers. One look at Sasha, and he patted his smile back into place. "Must be your lucky day, lady," he said. "Your car's all set. Driving it around front now, and the paperwork on it'll be coming through in a minute." Sasha sent her thanks on an eyelash flutter. "Guess you'd better pay the man, Cindi." She dripped the words like honey. Scowling, her lips forming soundless words, Cindi scuffled over to the counter. "How much do I owe you?" Without a word -- or a smile -- the counter guy retrieved the bill from the sputtering printer and shoved it at her. "Here it comes now," he grunted, nodding toward the front door. As soon as they finished up and climbed back in the car, Cindi spit her gum into the receipt, crumpled it and tossed it on the floor. Sasha let out a derisive snort. "You see that guy" Falling all over himself to impress me? God, men are such idiots." She fished a cigarette out her purse, lit it and exhaled a long column of satisfied smoke. Cindi rolled down her window with more energy than necessary and pulled out onto the street with a lurch. "Mind if I take you home?" she threw out in what she hoped was a casual manner. "I'm not feeling up to shopping after all." Sasha raised an eyebrow, considered a moment, then said, "Just drop me at the mall, okay? I'll find a ride." The words prompted Cindi to grip the wheel to the point of bloodless pain. The rest of the drive was quiet and tight, and when Cindi dropped Sasha off she accelerated too hard and made the tires squeal again. Checking her rearview mirror, she saw that Sasha was amused. Back at her apartment, Cindi slammed doors and kicked off her shoes haphazardly, not caring where they landed. She let out a sigh and collapsed on the second-hand couch, hugging a pillow to her and rocking back and forth a few times, in rhythm with her ragged breathing. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn," she repeated like an empty mantra. Semi-purged, she tossed the pillow aside and started to gather herself. Out of instinct, she reached forward and grabbed her pad and pen from the catch-all coffee table. Settling back into the couch cross-legged, she flipped open the pad and started to draw. That, at least, was what she had planned - but all that came out today were lines and squiggles. Doodles of unknown meaning and cause. Lost in her dark thoughts, Cindi created a storm of black nonsense, letting her pen flow where it would on its own. She grew so lost in the snarl of lines and curves that she filled the page and yet kept on going -- right off the pad and onto her right thigh. As pen met flesh, the tenor of the lines changed slightly, growing into vines and tendrils, turning her leg into a stark garden. When she bumped up against the fringe of her cutoff shorts, the abrupt change in texture woke her from her travels. "My God! What am I doing? What a stupid thing to do!" She smacked the pad back on the table, jumped up and ran to the kitchen sink, ran the water and grabbed a dishrag, scrubbing at the newly created design. "Good thing Sasha's not here to see this!" The ink resisted all her efforts. No matter how much soap, no matter how hard she scrubbed, the lines wouldn't leave or lessen. It was as if they had seeped beyond her skin into her muscles and marrow and taken up residence. Alarmed, she ran to the bathroom, tore off her clothes and jumped in the shower. But after ten minutes of near scalding water, the result was the same. She might as well have been tattooed |
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| Please click on the links below to read exerpts from some of my other stories. | ||||||||||||||||
| Retreat | Dreaming | Signs and Portents | Tattoos | ||||||||||||||||
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