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“You really want this?” I ask.
“A ring?” she says. “No, all I want is a tattoo.” She waves the tray of rings away.
“You do?” I register surprise. Why all the business with the rings? I wonder.
“Yes, a tattoo, a little one,” she tells the tall no-nonsense woman behind the counter. “I want rose petals like tears on my thigh.”
The picture that comes to mind is really lovely, especially since I imagine tattoos of skulls and crossbones, knives and vicious faces. Rose petals. How delicate and defining, so like Peach. I wonder why I didn’t think of something so fresh and simple.
The woman smiles thinking Peach’s inspiration as novel and appealing as I do.
“Back here,” the woman tells us, and she shows us behind a curtain where Peach will sit. I notice now that the place is surprisingly clean. I’ve always figured these places to be crawling with vermin, but this is spotless.
I watch as my lover pulls up her skirt and shows the woman where she wants the tattoo: at the top of her right thigh just a little off center towards her side. My mind wanders to more lewd thoughts, of placing a tattoo on shaved labia, close to the pussy. I say nothing, or Peach might think I’m interested for myself.
I don’t want to watch the operation, but Peach continues to look at me. I see a little trepidation in her eyes, as if she needs me there for support. I don’t think myself as very supportive at moments like this, but I remain dutifully next to her while I feel all cramped and frozen in the tiny room.
The tattooing is painstaking. I watch the needle and then watch Peach’s expression. It hurts, but not much. She relaxes half way into the process, and smiles at me, as if she were beckoning me to get one too. I’m too much in a trance to smile back. I don’t want to encourage her in her fantasies.
When the woman finishes, there are three rose petals descending on Peach’s creamy olive thighs. They’re so pretty, so perfectly placed. The woman is a fine artist; I can respect her for her craft. I wonder if Peach knew about her and her shop all along; was our coming here as impromptu as Peach led me to believe? I’m beginning to think it wasn’t chance at all that we passed by this place.
“Now you,” Peach says to me, looking as though she’s daring me.
“Me? Oh, no. Not me,” I protest. I know right off that I won’t do this. There’s no way she’ll talk me into painting my body with something that won’t wash off. Besides, I’d have too much trouble deciding what kind of tattoo I’d want. I’ve always considered that my body is a statement of myself; one false move and I’ll ruin the portrait and perhaps my whole identity. This sounds too ridiculous to even mention.
“For heaven sakes, Cass, why not? You’ve thought of everything sexual, including this. I know you, don’t lie to me.” There is an unpleasant edge in her voice. She doesn’t want to be denied.
“Maybe I have, but fantasy is fantasy, and reality is something else.” And this, I fail to add aloud, reminds me too much of things past, that while I refuse to even think of them now, I know lie lurking ominously in my psyche.
“Suit yourself,” she says haughtily, though I know that she’ll not let the matter drop.
Returning to the outer shop, she stares into the display case, at the jewelry once again. She turns to me with wicked thoughts written all over her excitable face.
“What?” I say cautiously. I don’t trust her.
“A ring,” she states, as if she’s made up her mind.
“I already have two sets in each ear, I don’t need more.”
“Not in your ear, silly, on your cunt.”
“NO!”
She doesn’t ever take no for an answer. Certainly not the first time. That naughty smirk remains on her face. “Let’s do it.”
“Please, Peach, I’m not ready for this,” I insist.
“Hey, love, you’re the one with the erotic spiritual connection. It would make a perfect statement of who you are.”
“To whom?” I ask, still too dumbfounded to accept what she really wants me to do.
“To me,” she says without thinking. “Who else would you think?”
I breathe deeply, trying to frame words suitable to end this silly notion.
“That one,” Peach says pointing to a small gold ring with a tiny filigree that looks like roses or ivy, something I don’t want to recognize.
The clerk smiles. “And where do you want this placed?” she asks.
