Her skin was nearly black with tattoos. When she was younger, she had had long strings of birthmarks that ran around her neck, down her spine, and along the veins of her arms. She had dreamed forever of creamy, even skin that lingered along the edges of everyone else she knew. When the black was ready for her, she ran to it, welcoming the needle as a friend into her skin. The islands of red that had lined her before were no more (as was the relationship with her parents, but she had decided that her own comfort was more important than degenerating to close a generation gap). When she decided that she had no room left, she took the needle for herself, so she could impart the black onto others.
He had inherited a little flower shop from his parents, next door to a tattoo place. He didn’t have a story. Keeping all the tabs he could on his elusive, enigmatic, tattooed girlfriend was his story.
She told him she loved him, but the scent of others always lingered on her skin.
Words and cover by Ella Luna.