Page 17 of Matteo

And then of course, there’s him.

But this woman has been in foster care since a very young age. Images of sadness, neglect and cruelty flash before my eyes. Of not being wanted, of struggle and strife.

What I’ve experienced is nothing compared to what she probably has. My hand reaches for hers and clasps it gently. She doesn’t wrench hers away. She doesn’t jolt in shock. So I keep my hand in hers.

“You have any more?”

“More what?”

“Tattoos.”

She doesn’t want to talk about her childhood. “I have plenty. My body’s inked all over.”

“All over?” Her eyes widen, before she masks her surprise quickly.

“I’d show you, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. Not yet.”

“Oh, puh-lease. Don’t kid yourself.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile on her lips.

“Because I’m just a janitor?” I cry in fake outrage. “You really are judgy.”

“I am not!”

“Just because I’m a janitor.” I huff in exaggeration.

“I’ve worked in all sorts of places. I’ve cleaned toilets, and cleaned vomit up from floors and tables. Nothing wrong with being a janitor.”

The thought of going on a date hangs in my mind, suspended between possibility and craziness. I’m not the kind of guy who indulges in flings, or is spontaneous. I don’t do quick fucks like Dex used to, before he met the love of his life.

I’m more of an introvert, more of the analyzing type. I’m always careful when it comes to my heart because I saw Mama’s broken one. I’m not the type to daydream or chase wild thoughts. Usually, I see things for what they are.

But she makes me wonder about things I don’t normally wonder about. About what kind of life hides behind those careful eyes. About what she’d sound like if she really laughed, unguarded. About why she seems both restless and entirely still, like she’s trying to hide how stressed she is, and sometimes she manages it.

It’s strange, the way curiosity tugs at me and I can’t seem to let it go this time. She’s just a stranger in an elevator, but for some reason, she’s taking up space in my mind as if she belongs there.

The corners of her lips lift. That’s good. She either likes the idea, or is playing along with me and being friendly. But I’ve succeeded in turning her attention elsewhere, and that was my goal.

“When did you get that?” I jerk my chin at her nose-ring.

There’s a pause, like she’s contemplating whether to tell me. Then, “The day I aged out of the system, on the day I turned eighteen.”

“Cool.” Despite her trauma, I’m surprised that she’s opening up like this, to a stranger, in a way I couldn’t.

“I found a place that did it and with the money I’d saved up, doing odd jobs, I got it. It was something just for me.”

“Rebellion?”

She pauses to consider. “No. Not that. It was a promise to myself that I’d make my own choices from now on. That my life would be mine to steer from this point on.”

“That’s deep.” She’s deep. I suddenly realize that she’s someone I want to get to know better.

“I had no control over my life and I was sent from one home to the next.” She picks at a piece of fluff on her skirt and I marvel that she seems so well-grounded. That even talking about her past doesn’t paralyze her into silence. “Every time I see it, it reminds me that I survived. That I made it out.”

It sounds like prison. Or a death camp.

“I meant to take it out.” She touches it absent-mindedly.

I nod. “Yeah. Corporate won’t like that.”