I loved him, so I got a tattoo.
It didn't happen the way it sounds. I didn't get some tribute like his name in Medieval Cloister font or "Us Forever" in Japanese characters. He wasn't even at the studio to witness the act. In his place my classmates revolved faithfully in and out of the neon parlor doors to coo at the masterpiece in progress. My friend Jessica held my hand as I winced in pain bracing the area around my appendix like a woman suffering labor. She looked over the artist's shoulder at the fleshy front of my right hip and assured me, "When it's all over and you see how gorgeous it is, you'll totally forget the pain." Like a new mom with a deadbeat partner, I'd be the single bearer of my own joyous creation, an innocent lovechild that I'd keep and be proud of forever, born of a half-decade tumultuous affair.
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He told me that if I went through with it, he'd be gone.
I decided to find out. I meant it as a poke, to push him to me or away. After I had my sexy markings he'd either stay with me once and for all or jump fully into his affair. It was my eighteenth birthday, and my ink would be my way of saying, I can make permanent decisions about my life without you. It's your last chance to choose between her and me. Why Men Cheat
I called him. "I did it. You want me to come over so you can see?"
He told me yeah, sure, he didn't have to be at work for another hour. I showed up in sweats with black lace underneath. He peeled my clothes off of me and the Neosporin-coated Saran Wrap from the wound. "A blue butterfly?" he smirked.
I raised my chin at him in coquettish defiance. "And two roses."
"I warned you not to do it."
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I shrugged. "So I did it anyway."
I thought maybe he'd smack me, but instead a cunning smile spread across his face. He shoved me onto his bed and didn't bother undressing me any further. As he worked his lips down my neck and his tongue down the front of my stomach, I knew I had won the combat of the tat.