Chapter 32: Marking Territory
The air in the tattoo parlor was thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the low, persistent hum of the machines. It vibrated through the worn leather of the chair where Amy lay, her face pressed against the headrest. Neon signs, a buzzing dragon and a flickering dagger, cast shifting red and blue light across walls papered with flash art of skulls and roses.
“Almost done, sweetheart,” the artist, a burly man with sleeves of ink, muttered, his needle tracing the final lines.
Jenny, perched on a stool nearby, bit her lip. “It stings more than I thought it would.”
Amy turned her head, a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes. “It’s, like, a good hurt, though. You know? It means it’s permanent.” She reached back and gave Jenny’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. Her own outfit, a confection of black lace and pink satin, was hiked up around her waist, the tiny shorts doing nothing to preserve her modesty. Jenny’s plaid micro-skirt was similarly arranged.
The artist wiped away the last traces of blood and ink with a clean paper towel. “Alright. Take a look.”
They both shuffled to the full-length mirror on the wall, turning their backs to it and craning their necks. Just above the rise of their buttocks, nestled in the small of their backs, were matching tattoos: delicate, swirling hearts wrapped with satin ribbons.
“Oh my god, they’re, like, perfect,” Amy breathed, a genuine smile spreading across her face.
Jenny winced as she twisted to see, the fresh ink angry and red. “It’s so… big.”
“Now every guy who pounds us from behind will see how pretty we are,” Amy whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone that was both childish and deeply crude.
Jenny’s initial hesitation melted away, replaced by a vacant giggle. “Yeah. They will.”
“Phone time!” Amy announced, her voice brightening again. She snatched her phone from her sequined purse, its case bedazzled with a cartoon unicorn. She positioned them in front of the mirror, both of them looking over their shoulders, pouting their glossy lips and wiggling their bare bottoms for the camera. The flash went off, illuminating their fresh ink and the vast expanse of exposed skin.
click
She typed rapidly, her thumbs a blur. “#matching #trampstamp #besties #newink #OFpreview.” She hit send, and almost instantly, her phone began to chime with a cascade of notifications.
“Ooo, they love it already,” she cooed, scrolling through the comments.
The bell on the parlor’s front door jangled. Mark stood there, frozen in the doorway. He’d been to every library on campus, every coffee shop, every stupid place she’d ever mentioned. The pawn shop neon was burned into his brain. He’d finally remembered Jenny mentioning something about conquering a fear this week. This was what she meant.
His eyes took in the scene: the lewd flash art, the buzzing needles, his sister and his girlfriend half-dressed, proudly displaying the brand new, permanent marks on their bodies. The smell of ink made him feel sick.
“Amy?” he said, his voice hoarse.
She spun around, her face a mask of innocent surprise. “Mark! What are you doing here?” She quickly pulled her tiny shorts down, a gesture that did little to cover her.
“I… I was looking for you. For both of you.” He looked at Jenny, who refused to meet his gaze, suddenly fascinated by a pattern on the floor. “What did you do?”
“We just got a little art,” Amy said, her tone light and dismissive. She turned slightly, showing off the tattoo. “It’s, like, a symbol of our friendship. Isn’t it cute?”
“Cute?” Mark echoed, the word tasting like ash. He remembered the girl who’d worn a t-shirt with a diagram of the Krebs cycle on their first date. The one who’d argued with him about the ethics of gene editing for three hours. “Amy, that’s… that’s on your body forever.”
“Duh, that’s the point,” she said, rolling her eyes. She picked up her purse, the transaction with the tattoo artist already complete. “We’re gonna go. The comments on our post are, like, blowing up. We have to do a live stream while the ink is still fresh.”
She linked arms with Jenny and began to walk towards the door, her platform heels clacking on the linoleum. As she passed Mark, she stopped and gave him a quick, dry peck on the cheek. “Don’t be such a grump. It’s just a tattoo.”
They brushed past him and out into the evening, their laughter trailing behind them like cheap perfume. Mark stood alone in the humming, neon-drenched room, the image of the two delicate hearts seared into his mind. They weren’t symbols of friendship. They were brandings. And as the door swung shut, cutting off the sound of their giggles, he knew, with a cold, certain dread, that the girls he loved were never coming back.