“I’ll bleed for you
Like a new tattoo in my heart
You’ll stay permanent.
Am I too late now?
Will I find a way to get to you somehow?”
Please indulge my lame attempt at writing fiction. It’s been eons since I last wrote a short story…But since I am a slave to insomnia every fucking AM — I might as well write and do something about it
“So, what does it mean?” he asks.
I look up from the steaming mug of coffee and straight into his eyes. They were a shade of light brown. It looked pensive yet visible was a flicker of unspoken defiance and shades of untold stories. He was looking at me sideways, his head weirdly angling to the right. His beaten (and well-worn) fedora hat covered a part of his eyes. A stray lock of hair fell across a
wide forehead. I just stared back. The question lost on me.
How can someone’s eyes be so fucking hypnotic? Does he know that his eyes can tell what his words cannot?
“Hey, I was asking you. What’s up with the new tattoo?” he repeated, gently nudging my arm.
I snapped back into reality. I looked at him and traced the trail on where his eyes were fixed. It was my new tattoo. The kanjii lettering for the word “tenshi” was etched quite neatly–and FRESH!–on my bare shoulders. I had it done three days ago, and it was starting to peel.
“It was for you, you idiot!” I wanted to tell him that but couldn’t. For three fucking years, I pined for you…hoped you would notice and probably end my agony. It’s not like I had chance. In his eyes, I was the kid from the house next door. The one whose cat he rescued after it was stuck in a tree; the kid whose mom or brother would send over to bring baked goodies or cooked food…and oh, I was that girl whose hair he had to hold while I wretched over the village playground–puking my brains out after my first taste of alcohol.
I will always be that girl.
But hey, I am not a kid anymore. It’s been six–or was it seven years–when I puked over your Nike. I no longer throw up when I drink (only in cases when I didn’t eat dinner), I now watch porn, I date and kiss boys. Look, I even got inked!
And now, sitting here across from you–at the same old garden table where we used to discuss mundane things–I am looking at you.
And I see your lips…how they looked so thin and red. How they reminded me of cherry pop sodas and lollipops. I wonder how it tasted like? Your eyes–shall we go through the motions of how they suck the life out of me? Can I even touch your hair? You had that god-awful haircut that is usually seen on JPop and Korean idols yet it matched your face. Maybe I could be bold and touch that stray look which covered your forehead., Or maybe bolder still…and tell you how I feel.
Remember when we were kids and you told me that I’d grow up to be pretty one day? Well, I believed you. So even if half the girls at high school grew boobs while I waited it out until senior year, I was okay with it. You said i will happen to me and there will be a day that I’d quit looking like a a boy. That boys would look at me. And who knows, maybe like me?
But you never even looked at me.
“Oh, my tattoo,” I began, trying to look at you. “It’s Japanese for …”
“Oh sorry, hold that thought…” you interrupted, reaching over to your phone on the table. You stood up and walked a few paces towards the garden.
I looked at you. Shall I be bold and tell you it’s meant for you. That you are my tenshi? That I —
“Hey, guess what?” you suddenly interrupted, a bit breathless, grinning from ear to ear. “That was my girlfriend! She just got inked! It was angel wings on her back. Aint she just adorable?”
I looked up from the steaming mug of coffee and stared straight in his eyes. And then, I heard myself say: “So what does it mean?”