Tattoos

My tattoo is a flower. A flower with an artful swirl in its center and three swishing petals, painted in the softest blue that faded almost white as it reached the tip of its petals. Often I would rub my ankle, imagining the day that a matching tattoo would appear on someone else’s skin.

    His is a leaf. Simple, but adorned with subtle, elegant designs. I love his tattoo. It was there on my collarbone still. The color hadn’t faded yet, and every time I looked in the mirror I saw it, the forest green tones reminding me of what I had lost, and that, despite my best efforts, I still couldn’t move on.

    I’m not sure quite when my tattoo appeared on him. It was on his shoulder, so it wasn’t hard for him to hide. He used to be just another guy, someone I saw every so often, someone I talked to only because there wasn’t anyone else.

    I remember when his tattoo appeared on me. It was just below my collarbone, easy to hide under most shirts. I had never seen his ankle before, but given how I felt whenever I was around him, it wasn’t hard to guess who it belonged to.

    “What’s your tattoo?” he asked me one day, more nervous than I had ever seen him. I hesitated to show him the flower on my ankle. Showing someone else your tattoo was a very intimate gesture, something I had reserved for only my family and closest friends. But this was him. I ripped off my shoe and sock, revealing the design.

    He didn’t say anything. Just lifted his shirt sleeve, showing me the matching picture on his shoulder. Unable to help myself, I reached out, tracing the curves of the petals with one finger like I had done so many times on my own ankle. Slowly, I pulled down my shirt, just an inch, to show him the elegant green leaf on my skin. He showed me its twin on his ankle.

    It was wonderful for a time. We were happy. He would take my hand every time we were together, as if he were proclaiming to the whole world that I was his. Every time he held me in his arms I knew there was no other place I would rather be. He took to wearing sleeveless shirts, so that the entire world could see my sky-blue flower engraved on his arm.

    Then, one day, it all fell apart. He didn’t need to say anything. The lack of color on his arm said enough. The cheerful blue was gone, and the bold black lines were now a faded gray. There was nothing I could do. The color was gone, and so was his love. I walked away.

    And even after all this time, the color hadn’t faded from mine