So Says the Ink.

Tattoos. I have two. Both were drawn by my own hand and then traced by a stranger with a needle onto my ribs for forever. The first I got several years ago because someone inspired me to metamorphosize, and the second I got recently because sometimes I need painful reminders.

From every ugly reminder comes beautiful new inspiration, right?

So says the ink.

Ink which went on white, and then was redone in silver, and finally black as I've grown bolder.

I leave for graduate school in a week. As per every August for the last four years, I prepare to be uprooted again.

I thought maybe this time would be different.

So says my newly blackened ink.

The last time I left, another young woman replaced me at my job. She stood out from the rest of our employee regimen. Why? She had purple hair and was covered in tattoos.

I didn't think we'd get along when I came home to work for the summer. I thought she'd see my relatively blank, seemingly untold skin (for I keep my stories buried beneath my clothes--read by only a few) and my regulation brown hair and be very disappointed.

Maybe she was, at first. But we became fast friends.

We bonded over Indie music and hiking and boneless buffalo wings, and summer flings that ended before their time.

You already know what happened with my guy, E.F. He called us off because he didn't want to get too close before I move away. Her guy called things off because he didn't want to get too close before he moves away. To Nebraska.

I thought maybe she brought donuts into the break room yesterday because binging on sugar makes the heart feel better. But something was off.

She didn't have to tell me in words. I knew.

She's pregnant. With Nebraska's baby.

He didn't react well to the news. She came to my place afterward. But she didn't get past the garage.

We took a drive through the Indian reservation, our only soundtrack the wind rushing past my open car windows as we sped through the dark at 100 mph.

When the tires finally came to a stop, we lay on my car roof gazing at the stars. I told her I would support her, whatever she decides to do about the life growing inside of her.

Because it doesn't matter how far away I am geographically. I make the people I care about a priority. And will take the Interstate home as often as she needs me to.

She smiled, because there was nothing else to do.

Despite the utter blackness of the empty desert, I could see the flame tattooed on her arm. The blue part, the hottest part, was larger than any of the other colors.

She's a survivor.

So says her brazen, pigmented ink.

Why my summer romance was consequence-free and hers wasn't, I'll never know. But then again, who can ever fully answer these questions of intimacy?