Back with a Passion ~ Sample from Writing Class 2010

My chest is pressed hard against the folding metal chair, my thighs aching with their strain around it. My fingers are so tightly entwined that the silver ring distorts, bending into a pinching oval. Heat of the late afternoon is thick with suffocating humidity. Sweat drips through my eyelashes. The needle continues its feverish work, piercing the skin of my spine with insanely paralyzing fervor.

I wonder if this is a survival instinct; the numb tolerance of intense pain. The thought is frivolous, maybe arrogant, and I’d laugh but I can’t. It’s not even virgin skin, a cover-up tattoo over the faded, crooked lines of a teenager’s whim. It didn’t hurt nearly this much the first time. Maybe a dozen years have dulled the memory? Or maybe Spring Break Mai Tais softened the needle’s cut in that south Florida makeshift shop that oozed with promises of adulthood.

Right this way kids, step on up. Stamp your skin, all grown up.

There’s no such thing as Spring Break anymore. There’s a job, and a schedule, and vacation time that accrues with sluggish mediocrity. When that’s not enough, there’s a guy you’ll fall in love with, do anything for. He’ll break your heart in the end. But first, he’ll make sure you’re addicted to the most powerful drug in the world. Travel. You won’t care about the job, or the schedule, or the vacation time anymore. And with that broken heart, you’ll be dangerously bold, more alive than ever.

One day you’ll wake up in Thailand, and the memory of that night he asked if you’ll ever have the tattoo removed will be fresh on your mind. “No, I don’t think so. I can’t even see it, really.” But he only asked the question so he could tell you that thinks it’s unattractive. The real twist of the knife was that you liked the tattoo, appreciated the symbolism of its asymmetric curves. You still like it, maybe even love it.

Sunan has a clean studio and a decent portfolio. His command of the English language is as limited as mine of Thai, but our colored-pencil communication is far more expressive. The tattoo’s artistic evolution is documented on the pages of his sketch pad, and the bloodied paper towels of several hours’ work are scattered at our feet. The scar tissue is sensitive, runs much deeper than the needle. Sunan pauses to light two cigarettes, passing one to me. My hand is shaking. It definitely hurts more this time.