Imperfect Affections

“Go to hell.”

“Done,” the guy says, wiping a disinfectant swab over the tat. “Keep it dry and apply an ointment twice a day.” He spreads a thin layer of salve over the tat and covers it with clingwrap. “This will help a little, but your jeans may irritate the tat when you walk.” He removes the gloves and dumps them in the trashcan. “I’ll give you a moment to get dressed.” On his way to the door, he adds, “Oh, and congrats on your first ink.”

I flip him off.

“You did great,” Leon says, tracing my jaw with his thumb.

I slap his hand away and sit up. When I swing my legs over the bed, Leon locks his fingers around my waist to help me down.

“Do not touch me,” I say, clenching my jaw.

“We’ve been through that already, so I’m not going to repeat myself.” He tests my balance before letting go. “How do you feel?” He touches my brow. “You’re pale. Does it hurt?”

I’ve been through pain a hundred times worse that lasted for just about my entire childhood. A tat needle doesn’t even come close to what I’ve endured, but I won’t tell him the pain that hurts the worst is inflicted by words and deeds.

Pushing him away, I search for my jeans. “What do you care?”

“Don’t move,” he says, retrieving my jeans from a chair. “We’ll get you a painkiller at the pharmacy.”

“I don’t need a painkiller.” The spot where the needle pierced my skin burns a little, but sadly, it’s not nearly enough to make me forget about my anger.

“Did you have dinner? You have to eat.”

Bringing up dinner reminds me vividly of the scene I witnessed in the restaurant. “I hate you.”

He cups my face. “I told you I was going to put my initials right next to your pussy, and I always keep my word.”

I can only stare at him with everything that churns in my chest threatening to spill over into my eyes, but I refuse to give him my tears. He doesn’t deserve them.

“How about Chinese?” he asks. “There’s a place upstairs that makes great sweet and sour pork.”

“I ate,” I lie. I won’t be able to stomach food.

“Chocolate?” he asks. “Swiss, Belgium, whatever you prefer.”

“Chocolate isn’t the medicine I need.”

“What is your medicine? Flowers? Jewelry?”

How sad. Just like he’s buying sex, he’s trying to buy my mood. It’s too much like Gus when he has flowers delivered after cheating on my mom. It’s too much like my mom who pretends she delivered cookies to the retirement home when nothing can be further from the truth.

It’s all so hopeless.

Futile.

Lost.

That’s the moment that finally breaks me.

The truth bleeds like darkness inside me, its shadow consuming every part of me until it’s eaten everything in its path. Something twists in my chest. It winds round and round until…

Snap.

Nothing.

There’s just … nothing.

He intertwines our fingers and pulls me past the queue of people in the waiting area, who all avert their eyes, back outside and to his car.

We drive home in silence, my prayer for numbness finally answered, yet it doesn’t bring relief. It’s like being stuck in a deep, dark pit, knowing you’re doomed to exist on the rock bottom of that hole from which you’ll never emerge.

Leon pulls into the garage and helps me from the car. He deactivates the alarm and steers me into the house. I walk ahead of him like a zombie, acting on auto-pilot. Pure habit dictates my actions. I have to shower, get into bed, and sleep. Tomorrow, I have to order an Uber and fetch my car—no, Leon’s car because the Lexus belongs to him—from the bar. I have to stop at the supermarket on the way and get some groceries because the fridge is almost empty. I have to fold the laundry and put on a dress before going for lunch at Damian’s house.

That’s right. It’s tomorrow. I almost forgot. I’ll pick up some flowers for his wife—wait, that makes her my sister-in-law, right?—while I’m at the store. When I get home, I have to call my mom and make sure she’s okay. On Monday, I have to get up, brush my teeth, get dressed, and drive to my new job.

I have to shower, get into bed, and sleep.

In the bedroom, I strip off my clothes and bundle them in my arms. My thighs chafe the tat where they rub together when I walk to the bathroom. I stop in front of the mirror.

I have to shower and get some sleep.

The guy said not to get the tattoo wet. I’ll have to use the hand nozzle and be careful.

“Violet,” Leon says behind me.

Instinctively, I stop at the sound of my name and turn to look at him.

His face is dark. “We need to talk about tonight.”