I got a tattoo that means nothing to me on the outside of my forearm—exclusively for those who beg me not to get any more, to see in perpetuity. Sorry, Tuta. I don’t want to keep my skin bare like frozen chicken tenders. I’m white meat. I deserve to be fried.
The tattoo is of a ballerina holding a blanket that casts the shadow of a bat (the creature, not the stick). It means I found a piece of art inside a book at Books & Books called Fangs—nothing more, until about halfway through the appointment.
‘Alexa, play Murder Ballads by Nick Cave,’ my artist said at the start of the session.
‘Now playing The Chainsmokers radio,’ Alexa replied.
Half a Chainsmokers verse, one argument with Alexa, and two Nick Cave records later, he went for a smoke, and I went to the mirror. As I was contorting my arm to see her silhouette, another artist said, ‘Alexa, play Rolling Stones mix. I’m tired of hearing dudes bitch about everything.’
The best Rolling Stones song came on, first try, and I could’ve sworn the ballerina twirled in response. She spun like a gluten free chicken tendie in the microwave. The choir crescendoed, and for a moment, the tattoo meant something. It meant someone, I should say, spinning just out of reach.
Unlike the ‘5150’ on my chest or the shark on my shoulder, which I knew symbolized my father and grandfather before I booked the appointments, I didn’t know what this tattoo meant until I bled on her behalf. It was post-period clarity. And now it was just me and her, both unfinished, both shadowless, both ovulating, both in flight, both listening to the same song.
My artist returned. ‘Alexa, play Tom Waits Rain Dogs,’ he said—another whining voice.
I sat back down, still singing the Stones’ song in my head, ready to let the ink gun pass through me and pierce the page. Maybe I’d pen an apology to Tuta, or write another letter to the shadow. But as Waits drank his way through the record, I lost the melody, she stopped dancing, and the shadow embraced me. Cheers, I wrote. You can’t always get what you want.
Raw
