Marked

When I pulled off my shirt, hopped on the tattoo chair, and lay my arms out wide, I said he could do whatever he wanted to me.

I felt his eyes roll up and down my body, appraising. I remember he looked over his shoulder to see if there was any one there, watching what was happening or watching what he would do.

“Do you have any other tattoos?”

“No.”

“I think you better think about this first,” he said, his breath getting a little shallow. Through the pulsing music I could hear him swallow.

I’d come in here mainly because it was the most shocking thing I could think to do to myself. But I wasn’t used to holding all that power, and I was glad when he started to take it away from me.

Curtis didn’t tattoo me that day. He had me put my shirt on and led me to the back room to have sex standing up. Every part of him felt like sandpaper.

His head was shaved to make going bald look like a choice, but, as we kept seeing one another over the next month, I’d learn that stubble returned in a U shape. The top of his head stayed as slick and shiny as a bowling ball.

He had a playing card tattooed on his stomach, and although it pictured the King of Hearts, in the upper corner there was the letter “C” instead of the letter “K”. When I asked him about it one afternoon—as we lay on his mattress that sat directly on the floor, my head propped up in one of my hands, my small tits sticking out from the bedsheet—he said it was because, in all areas of his life, he was a C kind of guy.

“Got Cs in school. I’m not the best to look at, but I’ll do. And my name starts with C, right? I’ve just accepted that’s my lot in life and I’m going to play that card, man.” He said this to the ceiling, hand resting on his doughy chest.

He looked a little different to me after he said that. It was as if I had put on glasses and hadn’t realized I’d needed them. He was not intelligent, not handsome, nor particularly kind. But he was not cruel and he seemed to lose himself over me. For now, that felt like enough.

“You’re not a C,” I lied, wrapping my arm around him.

He shrugged. “Better than a D.”

“But you are a D,” I swatted his chest. “You can be a real dick sometimes.”

He laughed—not because it was funny, but because I’d attempted a joke—and rolled on top of me.

He had a cat that wandered in and out of his life. He had plants that should have been watered more, their leaves looked downcast from neglect. His fridge was loud and the only light in the kitchen was from a flickering florescent tube that attracted flies. His bathroom sink was peppered with shaved beard and head hair.

I’d take long looks at myself in this bathroom mirror. I’d fluff my limp bangs, trying to excite some life into them. Even in good lighting I looked pallid, but at the time, I liked how my cheekbones jutted and my eyes sunk. Perhaps looking this tortured was enough to make me seem interesting.

The day he finally did tattoo me, we had been dating for a month. No one in my life knew about him. I hadn’t been calling my mom back. My friends from college went to jobs in pencil skirts and texted about how bored they were while they got paid. I’d found my roommate on Craigslist and even when I was home, I barely saw her. Maybe it was the fact that Curtis seemed so outside of my world that this little interlude felt like make believe, like I was playing a shitty game of house.

We’d been talking about the tattoo for the last couple days. It was the sweetest Curtis had ever been with me. He talked in earnest about the importance of placement and meaning. It made me soften towards him and gave me the fleeting feeling that he might actually be good at his job.

He pulled on blue rubber gloves, and I felt him entering the skin of his profession. Tenderly, he pulled my bra straps down to my bicep and cleaned the skin on my chest with an antiseptic wipe. He tinkered with a few instruments and hummed gently as he poised his gun over my throbbing heart.

He tattooed song lyrics in cursive across my chest. The words swooped in a downwards semi-circle, dangling between my protruding collarbones like half of a necklace.

When I looked in the mirror afterwards, the skin looked pinched and red, like my face after I’d had a long cry. I felt jittery as I took in this new version of myself that had been marked by my own doing. I touched the raised letters.

“I love it,” I lied and I felt him beaming as he nestled his stubble into the back of my neck.

I remember feeling a little hollow those next few days. The reality of what I’d done settled in as the skin healed and the ink sunk into my pores. When I’d first wake up in the morning, there would be a few moments where I’d forgotten about the tattoo. But eventually it would flood back with a whoosh, and I’d realize it was not a dream. There were mornings I’d get out of bed just to look in that bathroom mirror to confirm its existence. There it was. There I was, with my eyes looking sadder by the day. Perhaps I grieved an unlabeled body. The nakedness of my skin before the tattoo had made it easy for me to slip in and out of the people I felt I needed to be. My sense of self up until this point had been murky, and I could already feel this rebellious version swimming away. But now there was a lasting identifier—a self-inflicted scar that would freeze the state I was in that month and communicate it to the world for the rest of my life.

We didn’t stay together much longer after that. The first time we broke up, there was yelling—more from me than from him. It felt so good to scream that I wished I’d done it more when we were together. I loved how out of control I felt when I smashed terracotta planters on his floor and he ran behind me calling me a crazy bitch. The tingling I felt when I ran from him made me feel alive. I wasn’t sure when he caught up to me whether he would hurt me or kiss me. When he grabbed me by the forearms and looked into my eyes, I wasn’t sure he knew which one he wanted either. I loved the intensity of the sex we’d have later. The heat from the argument and the buzz of the adrenaline made our bodies pulse with carnal rage, mistaken as desire. I wanted to break up with him more, just to expel misdirected anger—anger for not knowing who I was or what I wanted or where I was going, and he seemed like a good target to hurl the blame. So I broke up with him a few more times in the next month. I loved that he always groveled back.

After one of our breakups, I was working a morning shift at the coffee shop. I had on a plaid shirt, buttoned above where the tattoo started.

A regular came in, and I watched him over the milk I was frothing. He was tall and ivy-league handsome, with a protruding Adam’s apple that became more pronounced as he read the coffee specials on the blackboard above my head. I wondered why he needed to look at the board. He came in here almost every day and ordered the same boring thing. His attire rarely varied from khakis, a well-fitted polo, and a zip-up fleece vest with a company’s logo stitched over his heart. Everything about him screamed of the kind of clean-cut, corporate, law-abiding man that would have made a mother proud. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

It was a small shop and I was the only one working that morning. I finished making the drink and aggressively scrubbed the steaming wand in a way that made me think of jerking someone off. I met him at the register.

“What can I get for you?”

The notch on his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Just a large black coffee, please.” His eyes darted to me and then back up to the board.

I punched his order in and said, “One of these days you’re going to have to get the nerve to order one of the specialty drinks you’re always looking at.”

He gave me a quizzical smile. “What’s that?”

“$2.15,” I said and shrugged. “You’re always staring at the board and never get one of our caramel-macchiato-caffeine-sugar-yum-yums. I promise they’re good.”

“Caffeine-sugar-yum-yums?” He laughed. “I’ll have to remember that.”

I nodded and waited. He stared at me a little longer.

“$2.15,” I repeated.

“Oh shit.” He dug in his pocket for the change.

“You always seem surprised by the price too,” I said, feeling emboldened from lack of sleep and lack of customers to rib him a bit more. “It’s literally the same every morning.”

He placed two bills and two coins in my palm and I could feel that his hands were sweating. “Does that make me boring?” he asked with a sheepish grin.

“No, not boring. Dependable.” I tore the receipt, balling it into trash it without asking him if he wanted it.

I turned to fill up his cup from the vat behind me.

“My name’s Dean.” I heard over my shoulder.

“I actually don’t need a name for this. I’m getting it for you now.” But when I turned back towards him, he was scribbling on the back of a small piece of paper.

He handed it to me as I handed him the coffee. “That’s my number.”

“I can see that.” I said as he capped his pen and stuck it back in the zippered chest pocket of the vest.

“Maybe give me a call sometime?” He ran his fingers through his hair, maybe to remove some of the sweat from his hands. “I promise I’ll be on time for a date.”

I looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, puzzled but flattered. “Because I’m dependable?” he offered. “That’s what you just said about me.”

I nodded, liking the feeling of having his name and number and admiration and him not having any of mine. “Dependable Dean,” I said.

He cheers-ed me with his coffee cup. “Give me call, Camila,” he said and took a sip as he backed away and turned.

I looked down and realized that of course he knew my name—it was written on my stupid badge across my stupid chest because I was a stupid barista in the worst coffee shop in town.

Still, I tucked his number in the smallest pocket of my jeans, the one I usually only kept baggies of coke in, and looked around to see if either the retired Vietnam veteran or pink-haired anime kid had seen the interaction. No one noticed.

I returned to my apartment that afternoon after my shift was over. I’d been away at Curtis’s for a few days, and when I walked inside, I smelled stale air. It reminded me of what an old person’s house smelled like. I worried that maybe the apartment always smelled like this and it was only my time away that made me aware of it. I dropped my duffle bag on the couch and went to my room to find a candle to mask the smell until I got used to it.

Maybe it was the few days away that gave me perspective, but as I rummaged through drawers looking for a lighter, I noticed relics of my past that layered the room like rock sediment. I brushed past a concert stub for a dubstep show that I barely remembered, I’d been so high. There was a soccer trophy from high school. The gilded woman contorting her body to connect with a soccer ball now held up a bra that I’d left to dry. The top of my dresser was covered in half-read books. I had a hard time making it past the 100-page point and starting something new felt more satisfying than pushing through the lull of plot development.

I found the lighter. I lit the candle while I sat on the end of my unmade bed. Holding the glass jar of the candle in my palm, I looked at myself in the Target mirror I’d affixed to the door of my closet. With a free hand I unbuttoned my plaid shirt until I saw the letters of my tattoo.

I thought about Dean. If I were to go on a date with him, I could be selective about the stories I revealed. I could chameleon, as I always did, in order to be chosen.  For all of these versions of myself scattered around the room, some I would play up, others I would omit. But there was no hiding the tattoo. It was a lifelong reminder of my interlude with Curtis, and this kind of vulnerability was new to me.

When I met Dean at the bar, I wore a scoop neck top that ran in parallel to the lyrics across my chest. He was already sitting in a low chair. His beer was thoughtfully perched on a coaster, a few modest sips below full. He stood up to hug me, which felt odd, considering we’d never even been on the same side of a counter. He smelled good and clean, like he’d just showered.

Through the course of the evening, I waited for him to mention the tattoo. Even to lean closer and ask what the lyrics said and ask for the meaning of them. But he didn’t. He was perfectly content talking about his career, his friends, and his favorite places in town that he’d have to take me to.

I thought about how easily I could slip into the old script of being the person my date wanted me to be. If he’d taken the time to ask me about myself, I knew I could curate my answers to increase his likelihood of choosing me. I could talk about the soccer scholarship I’d earned in college and leave out the part where I got kicked off the team. I could talk about how I loved burgers and had a fast metabolism and not mention that it was the only thing I would eat that day. But I was tired of keeping track of the people I’d been through the years, cataloging which ones were desirable and which ones I’d need to lie to become. There was something freeing about having this tattoo, this little rebellious part of me, out in the open. Maybe that simplified things—having some of my cards out on the table. I chugged my vodka soda and ordered another.

It wasn’t quite 10:00 p.m. by the time we parted, but he said he had to be up early for work. He paid for our drinks and walked me out to the front of the bar. I asked him where he parked and when he told me, I told him I’d parked the opposite direction, even though I hadn’t.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered.

“I’m good.”

After a pause, he said, “I fucked this up, didn’t I?”

I shrugged. “I’ll see you around, Dean.” I turned on my heel and pulled my sweater a little higher up my shoulder.

“Let me walk you.” He called after me.

“I’ve got mace.” I yelled back and only afterwards did I realize he might take that as meaning that I would mace him, when I really meant I could defend myself if it came to it. But I didn’t care how he took it. I imagined him licking his wounds tonight as he’d masturbate to the memory of me and that thought made me smirk. I turned a corner without looking back.

I found my way into a music hall where all the walls and the stage were painted black. I grabbed a beer and joined the crowd.

The band was mediocre, but the crowd’s energy was good. The buzz of my third drink on an empty stomach vibrated comfortably on my tongue.

The hall began to fill and soon there were bodies bumping gently into me as they weaved with the beat of the music. The bodies felt indistinguishable until one face bobbed into focus. It was a lanky man with shaggy hair and patchy black stubble. He had on a tight t-shirt, smelled vaguely of body odor, in the way that suggested natural deodorant and that he liked to dance. He opened with a non-threating, “Hey.”

I nodded in his direction, and gave him a look up and down. He also held a bottled beer, one hand shoved into the pocket of jeans that were a little snug. We danced next to each other for a song and then he moved closer.

“Great band, huh?” he yelled in my ear with hot breath.

“They’ll do” I yelled back.

He laughed.

“I like your tattoo,” he gestured across my chest.

I rolled my eyes. “Thank you.”

“No really, that’s one of my favorites.”

I paused, a little taken aback with flattery that he recognized it. “Mine too. I hope I don’t get sick of it.”

“Sick of the song?”

I was verging on drunk enough that I leaned in and released the worry that had been needling me in the back of my brain over the last few weeks. “The tattoo. I think it might have been a mistake.”

“Oh?” He looked surprised, but then shook it off. “That can’t be. There aren’t any mistakes. Only life experiences.” He held out his beer to cheers with mine, and said “To life experiences, huh?” After an appraising moment, I decided to clink with him, and I downed the rest of my beer.

He said he’d be back with another and that I shouldn’t move from this spot. I listened to him. I liked watching him find his way back to me in the crowd, looking up with hopeful eyes when he saw me still standing there.

The music became easier to move to the more beers we drank. The laser lights that felt cheap when I’d first arrived now vitally punctuated each beat. We began to dance together with urgency. I grabbed him by the loops of his jeans and pressed my sweaty forehead to his chin. We kissed with a lot of tongue and teeth on lips. It felt easy. I felt happy.

As he grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd, I took a slight stumble. He giggled, adjusting the grip on my hand so that he could hook his arm underneath mine for support. I laughed too, but felt a flutter of something familiar, a little tap-tap-tap on my heart that suggested I’d been here before, perhaps at a cost. But before I could listen to it, the cold evening air hit us with a blast and any thoughts I had were drowned out by the throbbing in my ears. It was too loud in the hall, and my ear drums were crying.

He said his place wasn’t far from here. As we walked up some rickety stairs, I started singing the lyrics, the ones on my chest. They seemed especially poignant on this night. I realized that’s one of the reasons I loved the song so much—the words continued to take on different meanings in different contexts. And realizing that they related to this moment too felt heady, as if I’d just started to feel an acid trip ripple the edges of my vision.

“That’s nice,” he kissed my forehead repeatedly as he tossed the keys in one hand to find the one that unlocked the door. “What song is that?”

I shoved him as much as I could without losing my balance, and then pointed to my chest. “The song!” I yelled a bit too loudly for an apartment hallway.

He laughed, shushed me and said, “Ah, that’s right.” He backed me into an apartment that smelled like wet towels and compost, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was intent on removing my sweater, tracing the curve of my shirt with his fingers, and unbuttoning my pants.

As I fell back onto his musty couch, I felt a trickle of confusion. But then I let it go. There was no use in fighting who I was: I was always the girl that some guy wanted me to be. So I lay back, tried to be uncomplicated, and let him do whatever he wanted to me.