That same day, Sang Bleu was next door, eating a shrimp salad.

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She lets him describe how her ink is her blood and her body—his description sounded like religion. Tracing various lines and pictures littered around her skin, he told her stories about who he is. Vines turn into waves turn into a whale with a thought bubble. What’s on his mother’s grave, where he grew up, what gives him hope. Hope is a funny thing to feel.

She tries to avoid it.

He was cute and asked her to draw on him with a Sharpie. She placated him. She drew a dragon snaking its way up his arm with wings that conveniently spread out over his chest and back. He’s pretty sure this was just an excuse to get him to take my shirt off.

It worked.

He “hmm”ed over her suggestions and “oh yeah”ed over the pictures she showed him on her laptop.
Months passed. She persisted. “I can’t even believe how badly you need one,” she said. They continued to talk and go to lunch and do other things that would indicate a growing friendship.

It was a Thursday and an empty, nothing-filled day when he said, “I know what I want to get.” And then she said something and they went up on the rooftop.

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Comment on “That same day, Sang Bleu was next door, eating a shrimp salad.

  1. Maxime Buechi says:

    it is a beautiful story. :)