Something You Live With
144 words
Years ago I was alone on a rooftop, smoking, when a woman asked me for a cigarette. I didn’t have a pack, just the one, so we shared it.
She said she liked my tattoos, specifically the placement of the two on my shoulders. She’d been obsessed with placement ever since she’d gotten a new piercing and the piercer had pierced too low on the lobe.
Looks fine to me.
She took the earring out—see?—and passed the cigarette.
It was, I agreed, a little out of line, but when the earring was in, it was impossible to notice.
You could let it grow back together and try again, I said.
I’m not going to do that.
I understood. Neither would I.
So it just becomes something you live with.
She passed the cigarette back.
Ok, sure, right.
I never saw her again.
The above essay is 144 words, a part of a series explained here. Past entries include:
