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“Oh God, Emma!”
Cora rushed to me, tracing the letters with her fingertip, her lips forming an O shape. She didn’t believe in love — not the kind that lasted more than a few nights, anyway.
“Yeah,” I said, as I closed the zipper.
“Are you going to get it removed?” Cora asked, and I shrugged. I’d done a few internet searches on laser tattoo removal, but it looked expensive and painful.
“I’ll keep covering it with clothes,” I said, but Cora shook her head.
“No way. You’re literallybrandedwith his name. What will you do, keep your shirt on whenever you have sex for the rest of your life?”
I could see my reflection in the black television screen. My burgundy hair and black dress looked good, but my face was tired and worn out, and my makeup had smudged under my eyes.
I kicked my shoes off and left them on the carpet.
“What if I never have sex again?” I asked, as I walked through to the kitchen in bare feet. “That would solve the problem.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Cora sighed. She followed me and leaned against the doorframe while I dug through our appliance drawer for the popcorn maker. “You’re twenty-five. Even if you take a year or two off, you’ll want to get back out there, eventually. Why don’t you get it covered with something else?”
I measured out the corn kernels and poured them into the machine before adding a thick wedge of butter to the top tray.
“I don’t know…” I said, as I switched the machine on. It made a whirring sound, and I grabbed a large bowl and salt grinder while it heated up.
“Come on, Emma,” Cora said. “This isn’t a butterfly on your lower back. You’re branded — like a cow. Look at this place,” she said, as she pulled her phone out and swiped her finger across the screen a few times. “I’ve been following them on Instagram, and they do amazing cover-up work.”
I took the phone and flicked through the photos as the corn began to pop, each kernel bursting a few seconds apart. She was right — their work was good. Very good. The animals and portraits, in particular, were hyperrealistic, and every piece was undeniably professional. The photos of the studio among the tattoos showed a bright, clean space full of reclining chairs and padded tables.
Their profile page showed photographs of three men, with a short blurb about their work.
Xavier had short brown hair, a bushy beard, and a serious expression.
Business owner with fifteen years industry experience. I’ve worked at several parlors in Sydney and interstate, learning new skills and techniques at every opportunity.
Jackson had strawberry blond hair that was tied back, freckles, and a wide smile. He looked like he belonged in a rock band or a surfing club, and I liked the wolf tattoo on his neck.
Adrian had a bald head and dark stubble, with one raised eyebrow and a self-assured grin.
I’m an apprentice with only six months experience, but don’t let that hold you back. I have a keen eye for detail and a growing cohort of happy customers.
There were no red flags, and none of them looked like the kind of people who would make my tattoo look worse.
But still, I wasn’t sure.
“This one hurt so much,” I said, and dragged my finger across my chest, remembering the painful sting of the the tattoo gun.
“I’ll come with you,” Cora promised. “Hold your hand. Hell, I’ll make out with you if it keeps you calm.” She grinned and reached out for her phone. “I’ll send them an enquiry. What do you say?”
It wouldn’t hurt toask, would it?
The popping sound sped up, each pop sounding like a firework, and it sounded like New Year’s Eve in our kitchen. It slowed, and I switched the machine off, covering the fluffy white pieces with a generous serving of butter and salt.
Normally, I would have waited and given the idea more consideration the next day, but after a few drinks, I felt more impulsive than usual.
“I’ll do it,” I said. I pulled my phone out of my bag, then made myself comfortable on the couch, the bowl of popcorn next to me. I shoved a handful of corn in my mouth and found the page Cora had shown me.
Hi, I wrote, after I opened a new message.I have my ex-boyfriend’s name tattooed on my chest, and I’m wondering what you’d suggest for covering it up.
I didn’t know what else to say, so I undid the top half of my dress and took a photo of my chest. A few seconds later, my phone beeped, and a notification popped up on my screen.
