“The waiter comments on my tattoo. He’s pretty, but the comment isn’t.” – travel journal entry, day 21

Something Borrowed

I have this tattoo on my arm, and it makes sense to no one. It’s supposed to be black, but by now it has become gray. The tattoo is the same age as the daughter I always imagined I would have at this point in my life (fifteen), though I’ll admit that the only thing sillier than a tattoo nobody can make sense of is me keeping track of a fictional person’s age.

The tattoo was designed by a friend. I shouldn’t say friend, because he wasn’t. He was an acquaintance, and I happened to sleep with him at times. I guess calling him a friend makes me remember him more fondly. Also, it’s supposed to be symbolic, though of course that’s a strange thing to reply when someone actually wants to know about the tattoo.

Imagine the conversation:
Someone: What’s your tattoo?
Me: It’s a symbol.
Someone: I detected that much.
Me: Well. I wasn’t sure where this was going.
Someone: It’s a symbol for what?
Me: The animal/letter/feeling/object commonly known as *insert animal/letter/feeling/object of choice here*.
Someone: Huh. It looks nothing like *repeat above-mentioned animal/letter/feeling/object*.
Me: I assure you, I should know. It’s a symbol. An abstraction.
Someone (glancing suspiciously at tattoo): It may just be a very badly drawn *use same animal/letter/feeling/object*.
Me: Yes. It may of course be that.
Someone: I think this *throw animal/letter/feeling/object into the room like a curse word* actually kind of looks like *insert any animal/letter/feeling/object that does not even slightly resemble aforementioned animal/letter/feeling/object*.
Me: You must be joking. Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to get a tattoo of *use latter animal/letter/feeling/object*.
Someone: Well…

I shouldn’t have said fictional. That doesn’t seem like the correct word. But what would you call someone who could have existed and then didn’t, because of circumstance and bad timing and an even worse economy? I think the word I meant to use was *insert appropriate opposite of living/flesh and blood/existing in the world not synonymous with fictional*.

Someone: Did you draw it yourself?
Me: No.
Someone: Who did?
Me: A friend.

Of course at this point of the conversation, “a friend” has become a derogatory term, and I don’t think of him fondly anymore. This happens sometimes, and then I have to remind myself of why I liked him in the first place: The blue eyes and the Canadian accent and the scar on his chin, and the things that were *insert appropriate opposite of real that does not equal fictional, but rather suggests projected/imagined*. But as I get older, reminding myself becomes harder; just a little bit harder each year.

Faded, all of it, and fading still.