Where Sea Meets Sky

“Where do you want to get it done?” I ask. “What were you thinking of getting?”

She purses her lips. “I’ll know it when I see it.” She turns her attention to me, staring at the tats on my forearms. “What are your tattoos supposed to be?”

I shrug. “A little bit of this and that. It’s not so much what they are . . . most are just patterns I like. It’s about what they represent.”

“And what’s that?”

“Moments in time. Tattoos are time stamps. That’s why I don’t believe in regrettable tattoos. I mean, shit, I’ve seen some pretty ugly ones and I’m glad I don’t have any of those. But, really, as long as your tattoo looks nice and is aesthetically pleasing, then why regret it? It symbolizes a moment in your life in a world where everything passes us by in the blink of an eye. I think it’s good to have these reminders to bring you back. Make you remember, reflect. Make sense?”

She nods. “Makes sense. That’s kind of what I was thinking, too. I want something to represent this. Us.”

I raise my brow and look at her in surprise. I can’t help it. “Us?”

She swallows uneasily and looks back to the road. “The trip, everything.”

But it’s too late. She said “us.” She wants a permanent reminder of us, something that I always assumed was temporary in her eyes.

Maybe I’ve been wrong about the whole thing.

Maybe I have something to work with here.

“So,” I say, skirting over it in case she gets defensive. “Did you want to do it in Rotorua? Auckland? ’Cause I will totally get one, too. Not matching, of course.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Hell no, not matching.” But she’s smiling. “How about Lake Taupo? They’ll probably have better artists to choose from anyway.”

“So we’re going to Lake Taupo after this?”

“Guess so,” she says with a smirk.

We decide to bypass Rotorua altogether (which, luckily, means I don’t have to do something called “Zorbing”—being pushed down a hill in a giant hamster ball—and head straight to Lake Taupo, stopping at a few of the better volcanic hot spots like Craters of the Moon, complete with dangerous steam venting from the earth and bubbling, boiling mud.

It’s late when we finally pull into the slick holiday park but the next day we’re up bright and early and trying to hunt down the best tattoo shop that will take us on short notice. There’s one in the center of town, among hostels and cafés and kiosks advertising skydiving and jet-boating and all those other ways to kill yourself. The lanky-looking dude in the shop is friendly and professional, and soon I’m being led to my chair. I take off my shirt and lie down. I’ve opted for a black-inked Canadian maple leaf but done in the Maori tribal style on an area of my shoulder blades that will fit in well with the existing tattoo there.

The needle buzzes and I feel the buzz in my veins. It’s addictive, this high that I get from getting inked. I’m glad Gemma brought up the idea or I wouldn’t have thought of it. She’s been rather . . . distracting.

She stands across from me, flipping through the book of sample tattoos and I take the time to admire her ass. You can bounce quarters off that thing. One of my favorite things to do is slap it with my dick. It’s like a cock trampoline.

I know she feels my eyes burning into her because she turns around gives me a wry glare. “I found my design,” she says though.

“Don’t tell me,” I tell her, wanting it to be a surprise.

About forty minutes later, I’m done. I glance at the tattoo in the mirror and smile. It’s pretty fucking awesome and couldn’t be more perfect. A time stamp of a person and a place I don’t ever want to forget.

It’s what the Kiwis would call a choice tattoo.

I glance at her over my shoulder. “Do you like it?”

She can only nod but her eyes tell me more. She loves it, both of our cultures melding into one.

The artist covers it up as Gemma gets into the chair and pulls up her hair, piling the massive waves on top of her head.

“I want it on the back of my neck, here” she says to the artist, pointing at the base. “And I want it in an infinity twist. Just like his necklace.”

The artist looks to me, briefly studying the greenstone. “Sure thing.”

As he begins to sketch it out, I stand in front of her, my hand going to her neck, the very place I like to hold her sometimes. “I thought you said no matching tattoos,” I say softly, massaging her there.

She cocks her head. “Your necklace isn’t a tattoo. You didn’t say it couldn’t match something else.”

Naturally, I’m flattered. More than flattered. I’m floored. I’m feeling a lot of things, and it’s not just the adrenaline from the tattoo. I feel like I’ve hit the ground and I’m still smiling and there’s another level below me that I’m about to fall through.

It gives me the craziest idea in the world.

When she’s got her tattoo, her time stamp of infinity, and we’re both buzzing from the needle and ink, I take her hand and lead her to one of the kiosks we passed by earlier. Two hours ago, it seemed like a death wish. Now I realize we’re both falling. Might as well make it even more real.

Because if you’re falling helplessly in love with someone, why not jump out of an airplane with them at the same time? I swear, I should write the advertisements for these companies.