You seem more concerned with tattoos than current events, Neamhchiontach.
He isn't happy at all. Firstly for the surprisingly stark and visible tattoo on my hand, and secondly because he's right. I am more concerned with tattoos than with the state of the world because the world is a terrible place full of bullshit and assholes and I've made my Utopia in spite of it. My American boys gave up their birthrights years ago and became Canadian because of me and we're safe and happy and completely fucking ignorant and I'm pretty sure the Devil is the only one who would have that any other way.
(I don't plan to talk about Outside-World News. I'm busy living Lord of the Flies right here, thanks. We have our own pecking order, our own politics and that's enough to handle on a daily basis. I'm happier without newspapers ninety-nine percent of the time and the one percent I stray from that I always end up regretting sooner rather than later.)
They're my souvenirs, I remind him. I'm not sentimental, truth be told. I don't keep things, per se. Just people. Just thoughts. Just memories all locked up in the zoo inside my head. Sometimes they break loose and go on a rampage. Otherwise I feed and water them, give them toys and let people see them, for a price. Sometimes they eat me alive.
Let me see. He wandered in briefly at the beginning, while Mark drew outlines the other day and got caught up on news but didn't come back after that. He hasn't seen me.
I'm not dressed for-
Let me see, Neamhchiontach.
I regard him for several minutes without breaking his gaze. I'm in a dress and tights. Combat boots. Sweater. I struggle out of the sweater, letting it drop to the floor and then unbutton the dress, finally letting it fall to the ground too. Tights and underwear remain on. I turn around and wait.
Oh my God. This is beautiful.
I look at the floor and then lift my arms so he can see what happens when I do a Jesus Christ pose.
I don't believe it. He sees it. Everyone's name has a place. Every last one, scripted into the feathers. Invisible until I raise my arms and then they're horizontal and clearly readable.
My name..
Right there with the rest.
Bridget-
I drop my arms, turn back around and shrug back into my dress, buttoning it haphazardly, balling up my sweater in my arms, tears of..I don't even know what stinging my eyes. Happy now? I snap at him.
Hey Bridge, I- Ben walks into the kitchen and stops halfway through his question. Everything okay?
He wanted to see it.
And?
He's seen it.
Ben watches us both and kisses the top of my head, telling me he'll be in the driveway if I need him. Caleb nods to him as he passes and then resumes his stare.
I didn't know.
Right, well, you would have seen it eventually anyway.
I'm sorry for my tone. I'm a bit on edge since Lochlan has decided to make me wait indefinitely for his decision.
I think you should probably stop waiting.
Have you talked to him?
Many times.
And?
I think he should bleed you dry, personally but he wants to take the high road.
Lochlan and his ridiculous integrity.
Integrity is never ridiculous unless you don't have any, Diabhal. I say it quietly, cringing slightly. He doesn't like being reminded.
Tell him to come see me when he gets home, then. If he thinks I'm going to languish while he ignores the offer he's mistaken.
He won't come to you.
Then I will come to him.
