Tattoo Artist

When he finally stands I notice that he’s hunched in the shoulders, his tall frame bent inward from decades of huddling over living bodies. An elastic bandage circles his wrist, its tendons long ago frayed by the vibrating gun. Like slender roots, strands of gray invade his long beard. Only his eyes, clear and smiling, betray his cleverness.

The walls of the tiny shop are covered with his artwork: powerful Samurai warriors holding aloft drawn swords, magnificent lotuses, birds-of-paradise on the wing. An air conditioner gurgles above the front door. The scents of stale coffee, wet ink and fresh blood hang in the air.

He returns smelling of tobacco. As he contemplates my arm, the music of an unknown concerto drifts from the radio, and for the first time I understand that it’s not a tattoo he’s etched into my skin. It’s part of me I didn’t know was there.

Farm House

When I step onto the porch I can tell that things haven’t been well. Peeling paint and sagging floorboards are all that’s left of the spot where we once had so many good times. Inside, the kitchen walls are worn away, revealing slats of wood and crumbling plaster.

My friend stands at the stove frying potatoes, her toddler son clasped to her hip. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her.

The dog is gone, the yard choked with weeds, the old truck a rusting hulk in the driveway.

“So how have you been?” I can’t think of what else to say.

My friend smiles a crooked smile. She sits down at the kitchen table and lets out a heavy sigh. “Things could be worse,” she says, pointing to the fireplace where several bricks have come loose. “By the time the bank takes it they’ll have to knock it down.”