twenty-five
Nov. 29th, 2015 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smackenzieI cover his tattoo with ointment and plastic wrap, give him the sheet of aftercare instructions although I'm sure he knows what to do, take his payment, congratulate him on his daughter's accomplishment (I don't necessarily think communion is that big a deal, but clearly he does), and send him on his way.
I copy his little magical symbol into a notebook where I keep new and interesting and hopefully useful charms and sigils and signs, with his name and an explanation of what the symbol is supposed to do. I have a lot of charms committed to memory, but every so often I want or need something I know exists, but that I can't immediately bring to mind. Sometimes a client will want a protective charm or a charm for money or talent or love or faithfulness or any one of a hundred things, and I can bring out the book and talk to them and figure out what would work best. And if they want me to ink something on them that I've never seen, or that I've maybe seen once and not memorized or written down, I can make a note of it if I think it will be useful.
Nila called it my spellbook and laughed at me. I just ignored her. And if I drew a charm for better digestion or better flavor with a spoon in the pot of chili as I was cooking it, well, who was going to know? The little magic I have was never enough to turn her off me, and for all I know she was actually attracted to it and just never told me.
Our issues were more than magic, anyway.
I wonder if I should call her and see how she is. It seems like it's been a while since I've heard from her. Lora must be home from a good length of time, and Nila isn't going to call me and beat around the bush about wanting me back while her girlfriend is around. She wants an excuse to break up with Lora that's more than just "I don't think I'm in love with you any more and I want to date someone else", and she wants me to be that excuse, but she's not so rude as to make eyes at her ex-girlfriend in front of her current girlfriend.
My last client is a girl getting an octopus tattooed around her calf, which takes longer than I was expecting because it turns out to be harder to place the stencil than either of us imagined. She thought she had a good idea what she wanted, and I thought I had a good idea what to do, and the result is that neither of us had the most accurate image of the actual size of her leg. She also changed her mind about the color between the last consultation and now, going from "I want black and white" to "I want it to be red". Which isn't as difficult as having to resize and rearrange and re-situate, but it does necessitate me mentally redrawing the tattoo.
I have to stop a few times when her leg cramps - she apologizes and I touch her calf and will my calming talent to relax her, which thankfully it does - and I can't quite finish all the outlining, but by the end of the session we're both pleased which what I've done so far.
"I think it will look good colored in," I say, smearing ointment on her new ink. "Do you have a specific image in mind for next time?"
"Brick red," she says. "Not bright red. Not like fire-engine red. I'll look for a good picture." She flexes her foot and wiggles her toes. I pull off my ointment-covered gloves, put in a fresh pair, and unroll some plastic wrap.
"Sit still," I tell her, and she does. I wrap her leg, tape it up, and let her stand.
"That's amazing. Hurts like hell, but amazing. I"m sorry my leg cramped up. It's a known issue."
"It's ok. It happens. You were really good, otherwise. Sometimes it's hard for people to sit still, so a big leg piece can be a problem. But you were great."
"I'm really good at sitting still." She lifts her leg and points her toe to watch the muscles flex in her calf. "How long until I can come back?"
"Three weeks. Come with me and I'll look at the appointment book."
I have a block of time in exactly three weeks, which should be more than enough time for the work I did tonight to heal. I remind her not to scratch it, not to pick at the scabs, to put ointment on it for the next four days - we recommend Bacitracin but if she's allergic to it she should ask at the pharmacy for another good antibiotic ointment or burn cream - and lotion after that, and to keep it out of the sun.
"Good thing I didn't decide I wanted it in August," she says, grinning.
"Don't wear anything too tight," I add. "You're good to go. I'll see you in three weeks."
She practically skips out of the studio. Endorphins, I think. They're a great thing. One of the first people I tattooed after I finished my apprenticeship and could officially call myself a tattoo artist was one of my friends from college, who wanted a big piece on his back. I worked on him for four hours, and fortunately he was my last client that day, because afterwards he took me out for dinner and then a walk around town, and he talked at me for two hours. He couldn't shut up and he couldn't sit still because he was so hopped up on tattoo endorphins. He kissed me on the cheek when we finally parted to go back to our respective homes, and told me he was going to recommend me to everyone he knew.
A year later he fell in love with a crazy girl - everyone agreed there was something amiss in her brain, although we couldn't agree on what exactly it was - and moved to Alaska, and it was four years before I heard from him again. His back piece made it onto the cover of a local magazine up where he was living, and he sent me a copy at Jonatha's studio. It was the first time my work had ever seen print, aside from the scans Jonatha wanted us to put online. She must have had a technomancer on retainer, because the web site for her tattoo studio was the most comprehensive I'd ever seen up to that point. Almost every piece of information you'd want about her, her studio, or her tattoo artists was up there, not to mention very extensive galleries of our work. But seeing my ink on the cover of a magazine from Alaska was a big thrill for me. Jonatha told me I should try to get another copy of the magazine, so I could frame the cover and still have an intact copy. I called the magazine and told them I was the tattoo artist who was featured on their cover asked them to send me another copy. They made me pay for it, which didn't surprise me, but after a couple of weeks I got my second copy in the mail. The framed cover is hanging on the wall at Suzume Tattoos, and the intact magazine is in my house somewhere.
I clean up and close up and go home, where Kay has made something that smells suspiciously like tagine.
"You didn't have to make me dinner," I tell him, after I've dropped my jacket on the couch and stuck my head in the kitchen. "It smells wonderful, though."
"Your eggplants felt kind of squishy," he says. "I was afraid to fry them. The recipe says plum tomatoes, but I don't know what those are, so I just took some from the garden."
"They're grown specifically for cooking. I think garden tomatoes will be fine." I lift the lid of the pot and let the scent of cooking vegetables and spices envelop me. I breathe in. I can almost taste the coriander and sweet potatoes and eggplant and tomatoes. Tagine isn't difficult - you just cut stuff up and throw it in the pot and wait for it to cool - but for someone whose cooking repertoire never seemed to have jumped country borders, it's a little bit of a deal.
Although it's essentially North African stew, and stew is pretty familiar to most people. Kay has already told me he can make chili, although he only knows how to make it with meat, and what's chili other than another kind of stew? So the tagine simmering away on my stove shouldn't be that much of a surprise.
I make couscous and Kay sets the table and Diego considerately climbs on a kitchen chair to get out of our way. While we eat I tell Kay about the girl with the octopus on her leg, and the guy who wanted a tattoo of the Virgin Mary for his daughter's confirmation, and I ask if he'd be at all interested in learning how to paint.
"No," he says. "Not really. I mean. Um. Was that rude?"
I laugh. "Not at all. I asked a straight question, I should get a straight answer. I was in the art supply store, is all. I bought some watercolor paper for myself, and I figured while I was there I could get you something too. But I didn't know if you had any desire to make art."
"I like cooking." He waves his spoon at the stovetop, where the pot is still three-quarters full of tagine. I'll put most of it in the freezer but save some in the fridge for tomorrow. "I read somewhere someone said that's an art."
"It can be." I think about my favorite bakery, and a vegetarian restaurant that closed a couple of years ago The thumbprint cookies I make sometimes for the little studio spirit aren't anything special, even if they are really tasty, but they could even be considered magical, since their presence in the studio kitchen means my toilet won't overflow and my sinks won't leak. I don't think Kay has suddenly acquired any kitchen magic to replace the visions he gave to me, but you don't have to have any magic at all to be a good cook. "Did you spend your day reading my cookbooks?" I grin.
"Some of them. I was curious. I wanted to make you dinner but I didn't know when you were getting home, so I knew it had to be something that would keep. And you have a garden, and I know you don't eat meat, and it was so late when I decided what to do that I didn't think I could go to the store and come back in time. You didn't have any bell peppers, so I left them out. That was ok, right? I mean, it tastes fine without them?"
I make a point to scoop up a huge forkful of tagine and stuff it in my mouth. I take a long time to chew and swallow, and then nod. "It's really good. Even without the peppers."
Kay ducks his head.
"Take a compliment," I add, smiling gently at him. He's still as strange as he ever was, but he's still a good kid, and I'm learning more and more that a lot of the strangeness is just that he's not really used to people being nice to him without wanting anything in return, or doing something kind because they want to, and not out of any sense of obligation. I've gotten the impression that his friends are fairly decent people where he's concerned, but as much as he might like them, and as nice as they are to him - and at least three of them were worried enough about him to confront me in my studio about how I wasn't giving enough of a shit - he likes the quiet, and they're not quiet.
I am also learning that he's not used to doing things for himself because they're good for him, without first taking into consideration what everyone else wants for or from him, and without acting in everyone else's best interests first. I think being so overcome with visions that he had to run away was the first step, and because he could do that and not lose all his friends - or me - he's now more confident doing things to keep himself sane and happy, whether other people would agree with him or not.
I might just be fortunate that the things he thinks will keep him happy and sane just happen to coincide with the things that I think will keep him happy and sane, and coincidentally make some of my life a little easier.
Like the fact that he made dinner.
Diego walks over my feet, jumps on a chair, jumps on the table, and sniffs my plate. I offer him a piece of carrot, but he snorts disdainfully and jumps back down to the floor. Kay giggles.
"He doesn't like people food," I explain. "I don't know why he keeps acting like he wants to eat it."
Kay shrugs. "Maybe he just wants to be part of the family."
"He should know he's part of the family." I lean over to look under the table, where Diego has settled himself on Kay's foot.
It occurs to me that Kay might not just be talking about the cat. He hasn't been living with me that long, but neither of us has discussed how much longer he plans to stay here. I told him he couldn't stay here indefinitely, but the reason I gave him was that he couldn't pay rent because he didn't have a job, and now that he does have a job - as part-time as it is - and he's cooking and cleaning and emptying Diego's litter box as partial payment of rent, what excuse could I give? He sleeps in the guest room, he doesn't make a mess, he's quiet, he's considerate, and I feel badly for him that he doesn't have anywhere else to go.
Well, technically, he does have somewhere else to go, and I'm sure his friends would be glad to have him back, but there are still a lot of them and whatever problems made him leave their house will still be there if he goes back. So he stays with me.
If I give it a lot of though, and most of the time I don't, I really don't mind. It turns out I like having a roommate I'm not sleeping with, and who can clean up after himself.
So this is my new life. I grew up with one magical talent and now I have four. I might have five, as I discover when my sister calls to firm up plans for our parents' anniversary, and I tell her to just do what she wants, add my name to it if it makes her feel better, and tell her how much I owe her, and she just says "Ok" and "I'll do that", without any sarcasm whatsoever, and that's the end of it. I try it on other people, putting a little will into my voice when I tell them what to do, and they always say "Ok" - or the equivalent - and do it. Nila leaves me alone. When I have to take my car in for its yearly inspection, the mechanic who always tries to sell me something I don't need just does the inspection, adds nothing extra, and passes the car. Maggie tells me the truth after several excuses as to why we've only slept together once - her roommate just doesn't want her bringing anyone home, and she knows I have a roommate too, and she thinks going to a hotel is tacky.
I have no idea why she couldn't tell me that in the first place, but now that I know, I can make other arrangements. We book a night at a nice hotel, go out for dinner, go dancing, pretend to be tourists on vacation, and have a athletic, exhausting night together. If I put a little bit of magic behind my voice, I can get her to tell me what I ask, or do what I want without complaint. It turns out not to work all the time, which to be honest is a little bit of a relief, because if I practice, it can become a big power, and it's more responsibility than I want from a small magical talent.
I never quite learn how to interpret the visions until after the fact, although one night I see a medal appear on Alicia's shoulder and then vanish, and I know it means she's about to receive a commendation for something. As it happens, the commendation isn't for her but for her aunt, who was a "human computer" - a mathematician who worked for what became NASA, crunching numbers and figuring out trajectories and angles for rocket reentry and all kinds of things for the space program. I never knew until Alicia told me that back in the day, people were considered more reliable than computers for that kind of thing. Alicia's aunt passed away years ago and never had any children, so Alicia receives the award in her honor. She's as proud as if she did the work herself.
So maybe I have magical abilities. I don't know if I want more or not - none of them are very powerful, but three of them are useful - it's uncommon but possible for people to have more than one, but five seems excessive, especially since I'm not trained in any magic, and I'm not studying it. I don't tell people about them, and so far it hasn't been a problem. If it ever becomes one, I'll figure out what to do then.
And in the meantime, I have my studio and my fellow tattoo artists, and I have a new girlfriend, and I have old friends and a roommate I like and a cat. I don't have to see my sister or my parents unless I want to, and most of the time I don't. Grandma Dolly has my back if there's drama.
I need a new tattoo. An infinity sign on my foot, for the endless goodness in my life, and the way one happiness feeds into another. I'll ask Maya to do it. My life is full of magic, but I don't need a magically-inclined tattoo artist to put it on my skin. It's already on my skin. I just sometimes need someone else to draw it out.
words: 3107
total words: 50,806
I copy his little magical symbol into a notebook where I keep new and interesting and hopefully useful charms and sigils and signs, with his name and an explanation of what the symbol is supposed to do. I have a lot of charms committed to memory, but every so often I want or need something I know exists, but that I can't immediately bring to mind. Sometimes a client will want a protective charm or a charm for money or talent or love or faithfulness or any one of a hundred things, and I can bring out the book and talk to them and figure out what would work best. And if they want me to ink something on them that I've never seen, or that I've maybe seen once and not memorized or written down, I can make a note of it if I think it will be useful.
Nila called it my spellbook and laughed at me. I just ignored her. And if I drew a charm for better digestion or better flavor with a spoon in the pot of chili as I was cooking it, well, who was going to know? The little magic I have was never enough to turn her off me, and for all I know she was actually attracted to it and just never told me.
Our issues were more than magic, anyway.
I wonder if I should call her and see how she is. It seems like it's been a while since I've heard from her. Lora must be home from a good length of time, and Nila isn't going to call me and beat around the bush about wanting me back while her girlfriend is around. She wants an excuse to break up with Lora that's more than just "I don't think I'm in love with you any more and I want to date someone else", and she wants me to be that excuse, but she's not so rude as to make eyes at her ex-girlfriend in front of her current girlfriend.
My last client is a girl getting an octopus tattooed around her calf, which takes longer than I was expecting because it turns out to be harder to place the stencil than either of us imagined. She thought she had a good idea what she wanted, and I thought I had a good idea what to do, and the result is that neither of us had the most accurate image of the actual size of her leg. She also changed her mind about the color between the last consultation and now, going from "I want black and white" to "I want it to be red". Which isn't as difficult as having to resize and rearrange and re-situate, but it does necessitate me mentally redrawing the tattoo.
I have to stop a few times when her leg cramps - she apologizes and I touch her calf and will my calming talent to relax her, which thankfully it does - and I can't quite finish all the outlining, but by the end of the session we're both pleased which what I've done so far.
"I think it will look good colored in," I say, smearing ointment on her new ink. "Do you have a specific image in mind for next time?"
"Brick red," she says. "Not bright red. Not like fire-engine red. I'll look for a good picture." She flexes her foot and wiggles her toes. I pull off my ointment-covered gloves, put in a fresh pair, and unroll some plastic wrap.
"Sit still," I tell her, and she does. I wrap her leg, tape it up, and let her stand.
"That's amazing. Hurts like hell, but amazing. I"m sorry my leg cramped up. It's a known issue."
"It's ok. It happens. You were really good, otherwise. Sometimes it's hard for people to sit still, so a big leg piece can be a problem. But you were great."
"I'm really good at sitting still." She lifts her leg and points her toe to watch the muscles flex in her calf. "How long until I can come back?"
"Three weeks. Come with me and I'll look at the appointment book."
I have a block of time in exactly three weeks, which should be more than enough time for the work I did tonight to heal. I remind her not to scratch it, not to pick at the scabs, to put ointment on it for the next four days - we recommend Bacitracin but if she's allergic to it she should ask at the pharmacy for another good antibiotic ointment or burn cream - and lotion after that, and to keep it out of the sun.
"Good thing I didn't decide I wanted it in August," she says, grinning.
"Don't wear anything too tight," I add. "You're good to go. I'll see you in three weeks."
She practically skips out of the studio. Endorphins, I think. They're a great thing. One of the first people I tattooed after I finished my apprenticeship and could officially call myself a tattoo artist was one of my friends from college, who wanted a big piece on his back. I worked on him for four hours, and fortunately he was my last client that day, because afterwards he took me out for dinner and then a walk around town, and he talked at me for two hours. He couldn't shut up and he couldn't sit still because he was so hopped up on tattoo endorphins. He kissed me on the cheek when we finally parted to go back to our respective homes, and told me he was going to recommend me to everyone he knew.
A year later he fell in love with a crazy girl - everyone agreed there was something amiss in her brain, although we couldn't agree on what exactly it was - and moved to Alaska, and it was four years before I heard from him again. His back piece made it onto the cover of a local magazine up where he was living, and he sent me a copy at Jonatha's studio. It was the first time my work had ever seen print, aside from the scans Jonatha wanted us to put online. She must have had a technomancer on retainer, because the web site for her tattoo studio was the most comprehensive I'd ever seen up to that point. Almost every piece of information you'd want about her, her studio, or her tattoo artists was up there, not to mention very extensive galleries of our work. But seeing my ink on the cover of a magazine from Alaska was a big thrill for me. Jonatha told me I should try to get another copy of the magazine, so I could frame the cover and still have an intact copy. I called the magazine and told them I was the tattoo artist who was featured on their cover asked them to send me another copy. They made me pay for it, which didn't surprise me, but after a couple of weeks I got my second copy in the mail. The framed cover is hanging on the wall at Suzume Tattoos, and the intact magazine is in my house somewhere.
I clean up and close up and go home, where Kay has made something that smells suspiciously like tagine.
"You didn't have to make me dinner," I tell him, after I've dropped my jacket on the couch and stuck my head in the kitchen. "It smells wonderful, though."
"Your eggplants felt kind of squishy," he says. "I was afraid to fry them. The recipe says plum tomatoes, but I don't know what those are, so I just took some from the garden."
"They're grown specifically for cooking. I think garden tomatoes will be fine." I lift the lid of the pot and let the scent of cooking vegetables and spices envelop me. I breathe in. I can almost taste the coriander and sweet potatoes and eggplant and tomatoes. Tagine isn't difficult - you just cut stuff up and throw it in the pot and wait for it to cool - but for someone whose cooking repertoire never seemed to have jumped country borders, it's a little bit of a deal.
Although it's essentially North African stew, and stew is pretty familiar to most people. Kay has already told me he can make chili, although he only knows how to make it with meat, and what's chili other than another kind of stew? So the tagine simmering away on my stove shouldn't be that much of a surprise.
I make couscous and Kay sets the table and Diego considerately climbs on a kitchen chair to get out of our way. While we eat I tell Kay about the girl with the octopus on her leg, and the guy who wanted a tattoo of the Virgin Mary for his daughter's confirmation, and I ask if he'd be at all interested in learning how to paint.
"No," he says. "Not really. I mean. Um. Was that rude?"
I laugh. "Not at all. I asked a straight question, I should get a straight answer. I was in the art supply store, is all. I bought some watercolor paper for myself, and I figured while I was there I could get you something too. But I didn't know if you had any desire to make art."
"I like cooking." He waves his spoon at the stovetop, where the pot is still three-quarters full of tagine. I'll put most of it in the freezer but save some in the fridge for tomorrow. "I read somewhere someone said that's an art."
"It can be." I think about my favorite bakery, and a vegetarian restaurant that closed a couple of years ago The thumbprint cookies I make sometimes for the little studio spirit aren't anything special, even if they are really tasty, but they could even be considered magical, since their presence in the studio kitchen means my toilet won't overflow and my sinks won't leak. I don't think Kay has suddenly acquired any kitchen magic to replace the visions he gave to me, but you don't have to have any magic at all to be a good cook. "Did you spend your day reading my cookbooks?" I grin.
"Some of them. I was curious. I wanted to make you dinner but I didn't know when you were getting home, so I knew it had to be something that would keep. And you have a garden, and I know you don't eat meat, and it was so late when I decided what to do that I didn't think I could go to the store and come back in time. You didn't have any bell peppers, so I left them out. That was ok, right? I mean, it tastes fine without them?"
I make a point to scoop up a huge forkful of tagine and stuff it in my mouth. I take a long time to chew and swallow, and then nod. "It's really good. Even without the peppers."
Kay ducks his head.
"Take a compliment," I add, smiling gently at him. He's still as strange as he ever was, but he's still a good kid, and I'm learning more and more that a lot of the strangeness is just that he's not really used to people being nice to him without wanting anything in return, or doing something kind because they want to, and not out of any sense of obligation. I've gotten the impression that his friends are fairly decent people where he's concerned, but as much as he might like them, and as nice as they are to him - and at least three of them were worried enough about him to confront me in my studio about how I wasn't giving enough of a shit - he likes the quiet, and they're not quiet.
I am also learning that he's not used to doing things for himself because they're good for him, without first taking into consideration what everyone else wants for or from him, and without acting in everyone else's best interests first. I think being so overcome with visions that he had to run away was the first step, and because he could do that and not lose all his friends - or me - he's now more confident doing things to keep himself sane and happy, whether other people would agree with him or not.
I might just be fortunate that the things he thinks will keep him happy and sane just happen to coincide with the things that I think will keep him happy and sane, and coincidentally make some of my life a little easier.
Like the fact that he made dinner.
Diego walks over my feet, jumps on a chair, jumps on the table, and sniffs my plate. I offer him a piece of carrot, but he snorts disdainfully and jumps back down to the floor. Kay giggles.
"He doesn't like people food," I explain. "I don't know why he keeps acting like he wants to eat it."
Kay shrugs. "Maybe he just wants to be part of the family."
"He should know he's part of the family." I lean over to look under the table, where Diego has settled himself on Kay's foot.
It occurs to me that Kay might not just be talking about the cat. He hasn't been living with me that long, but neither of us has discussed how much longer he plans to stay here. I told him he couldn't stay here indefinitely, but the reason I gave him was that he couldn't pay rent because he didn't have a job, and now that he does have a job - as part-time as it is - and he's cooking and cleaning and emptying Diego's litter box as partial payment of rent, what excuse could I give? He sleeps in the guest room, he doesn't make a mess, he's quiet, he's considerate, and I feel badly for him that he doesn't have anywhere else to go.
Well, technically, he does have somewhere else to go, and I'm sure his friends would be glad to have him back, but there are still a lot of them and whatever problems made him leave their house will still be there if he goes back. So he stays with me.
If I give it a lot of though, and most of the time I don't, I really don't mind. It turns out I like having a roommate I'm not sleeping with, and who can clean up after himself.
So this is my new life. I grew up with one magical talent and now I have four. I might have five, as I discover when my sister calls to firm up plans for our parents' anniversary, and I tell her to just do what she wants, add my name to it if it makes her feel better, and tell her how much I owe her, and she just says "Ok" and "I'll do that", without any sarcasm whatsoever, and that's the end of it. I try it on other people, putting a little will into my voice when I tell them what to do, and they always say "Ok" - or the equivalent - and do it. Nila leaves me alone. When I have to take my car in for its yearly inspection, the mechanic who always tries to sell me something I don't need just does the inspection, adds nothing extra, and passes the car. Maggie tells me the truth after several excuses as to why we've only slept together once - her roommate just doesn't want her bringing anyone home, and she knows I have a roommate too, and she thinks going to a hotel is tacky.
I have no idea why she couldn't tell me that in the first place, but now that I know, I can make other arrangements. We book a night at a nice hotel, go out for dinner, go dancing, pretend to be tourists on vacation, and have a athletic, exhausting night together. If I put a little bit of magic behind my voice, I can get her to tell me what I ask, or do what I want without complaint. It turns out not to work all the time, which to be honest is a little bit of a relief, because if I practice, it can become a big power, and it's more responsibility than I want from a small magical talent.
I never quite learn how to interpret the visions until after the fact, although one night I see a medal appear on Alicia's shoulder and then vanish, and I know it means she's about to receive a commendation for something. As it happens, the commendation isn't for her but for her aunt, who was a "human computer" - a mathematician who worked for what became NASA, crunching numbers and figuring out trajectories and angles for rocket reentry and all kinds of things for the space program. I never knew until Alicia told me that back in the day, people were considered more reliable than computers for that kind of thing. Alicia's aunt passed away years ago and never had any children, so Alicia receives the award in her honor. She's as proud as if she did the work herself.
So maybe I have magical abilities. I don't know if I want more or not - none of them are very powerful, but three of them are useful - it's uncommon but possible for people to have more than one, but five seems excessive, especially since I'm not trained in any magic, and I'm not studying it. I don't tell people about them, and so far it hasn't been a problem. If it ever becomes one, I'll figure out what to do then.
And in the meantime, I have my studio and my fellow tattoo artists, and I have a new girlfriend, and I have old friends and a roommate I like and a cat. I don't have to see my sister or my parents unless I want to, and most of the time I don't. Grandma Dolly has my back if there's drama.
I need a new tattoo. An infinity sign on my foot, for the endless goodness in my life, and the way one happiness feeds into another. I'll ask Maya to do it. My life is full of magic, but I don't need a magically-inclined tattoo artist to put it on my skin. It's already on my skin. I just sometimes need someone else to draw it out.
words: 3107
total words: 50,806
