I’m wearing my coat, so I have to shrug out of it to show her. I want to show her my art. I drew most of them, and my brothers put them on me. But I take my coat off and lay my hands face down on the table. She leans over, looking closely. I have full sleeves, which means I have tats from my neck all the way to my wrists.
She touches the lips on my forearm with a light finger. The hair on my arms stands up, but I pretend I don’t notice. “Why did you get this one?” she asks.
I smile. “That one goes with this one.” I point to my other arm. “It’s something my mother used to say.”
Her forehead crinkles as she looks at the cross on my other arm.
“From your lips to God’s ears,” I explain. “In my case, I have a lot of distance between my lips and God’s ears. That’s why they’re on different arms.”
“Do you see your mother often?” she asks. She’s still eating bread, and that’s good. I want to keep talking to her so she’ll keep eating. I know she hasn’t eaten today.
I shake my head. “She died a few years ago.”
“Oh.” Her mouth stops moving, and she swallows hard. “I’m so sorry.”
I shrug. It was a freak accident.
“And your dad?” she asks.
“He left after Mom died,” I explain. This part is always difficult. “There were just too many of us, I think.” I laugh. But it’s not funny.
“So, it’s just you and your brothers?” she asks.
I nod. “Paul took responsibility for everyone when our dad left. He had to so we wouldn’t all be split up.”
“Wow.” That’s all she says. Just wow. She looks baffled.
“We make do,” I explain. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. “How about you? Where’s your family?” I wait, like a kid in a candy store.
But she shakes her head. “No,” she says.
“That’s not fair,” I say.
She holds up a finger, just like I do to her all the time. “I know it’s not fair,” she says. “But it’s better if you don’t know.”
“Better for who?” I ask. I’m a bit irked that she’s keeping secrets. She has a right to them. But I don’t have to like it.
“My situation is difficult,” she begins. “And I can’t explain it to you.”
She looks back down at my tats. Her eyes play across them. There are too many to count. But I need to show her the one that’s hers. “I want to show you something,” I say. “But I’m afraid you’re going to be angry at me.”
She’s suddenly on guard. “Why? What is it?”
I turn my wrist over and point to her tattoo on my inner wrist. It’s a bare spot I’d been saving for something special. She leans toward it and all of her breath rushes from her body. I can feel it across my hand when she exhales. “That’s my tat,” she says.
She takes my hand in hers and lifts it toward her face. “Are you angry?” I ask.
She looks up at me briefly and then back down at the tattoo. She’s taking in every facet of it. Her hand trembles as she holds tightly to mine. “You changed it.”
“I felt like you needed a way out.”
I put it on my wrist because I was intrigued by the secrets inside. It’s art. And I appreciate art in all its forms.
She swallows. Hard. Then her eyes start to fill with tears. She blinks them back for as long as she can. And then she gets up and runs toward the bathroom.
Shit. Now I fucked up. I made her cry. She runs by the waitress, who startles. The waitress starts in my direction, a sway in her hips. I get up and follow Kit. I stop outside the door to the ladies’ room and press my hand against it. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. She’s in there crying and I can’t hear her through the door to be sure she’s all right. Fuck it. I’m not leaving her in there upset. I push through the door and I don’t see any feet in the stalls when I bend over.
Where the fuck did she go? I push doors open, but the last one is locked. I stand up on my tiptoes and look over the top. She’s standing there with her forearms pressed against the wall, her head down between her arms, and her back is shaking. She’s crying.
I knock on the stall door and say, “Let me in, Kit.” She doesn’t say anything. I wouldn’t be able to hear her if she did. I step back onto my tiptoes and look over. She’s still crying. “Let me in,” I repeat. She doesn’t move, so I walk into the stall next to hers and stand up on the toilet. I rock the partition between the stalls gently. It might hold my weight. There’s only one way to find out. I hoist myself up and over the wall, bringing my legs over the top slowly and carefully, and then I hop down.
Before I can reach for her, she’s in my arms, her arms sliding around my neck. She’s still sobbing, and her body shakes against mine. I tilt her face up to mine because I can’t see her lips to tell if she’s saying anything to me or not. I need to apologize. I didn’t expect her to get so upset. I’ll have it covered up with something else if it bothers her this much.