EIGHTEEN
I’m surprised the next day at work when Jackie, the kid with the new chest tattoo, comes to see me. The healing on her chest looks spot on, nothing concerning or anything like that, and she timidly asks me to do a hand tattoo for her—a geometric heart on her left hand—“so I can remember that it’s still there, even when I’m hurting, it’s still intact, you know?”
I had to go and close myself off in the ladies’ room for a good cry, my eyeliner shot to s**t, but I totally forgot about bringing my touch-up foundation to conceal the redness in my cheeks and nose like I didn’t just have a breakdown because I’m still out of sorts on Sunday morning.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
“s**t, this one hurts so much more,” Jackie says through clenched teeth, and I glance up at her, checking in to make
