Every time Ryan wore a tank top, there she was. Every time we went to the beach, she was there. Every time he turned over in bed, there she was.
Observing. Finally, curiosity won.
“Who is she?”
Ryan barely glanced at the tattoo. “Nobody.”
Not enough to start an argument, but enough to stick in my head.
Several years later, when we got engaged, I brought it up again. This time, she laughed.
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“So, who is she?”“My friend was learning realistic tattoos. He downloaded a random picture from the internet and needed someone to practice on.”
“It’s true.”
Even so, I knew he was lying. I just had no idea why.
After we got married, the tattoo started bothering me more and more. It wasn’t because I suspected Ryan was cheating on me. It was because people don’t tattoo a stranger’s face on their bodies forever.
Not like that. Not with that level of detail.
Finally, I asked her to cover up the tattoo. I wasn’t asking her to remove it. I just wanted something else. A compass. A mountain range. A dragon. Anything.
At first, he agreed. Then months passed. The tattoo artist changed. Money was tight. The work became more intense. There was always a new excuse.
Eventually, I stopped asking. Not because I didn’t care anymore, but because I was exhausted. Exhausted from missing out on the same conversation. Exhausted from feeling like I was competing with a woman whose name I didn’t even know.
So I learned to ignore it.
Or at least that’s what I thought.
Until last week.
I was standing in line at a bakery when the woman in front of me turned slightly. My stomach churned. I knew that face. Not from school, not from work, not from anywhere in my life.
For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Then she turned a little more. The same eyes. The same lips. Even the small mole near her chin. She’s older now, but she’s still her.
My hands started to tremble. I must have stared at her for almost a minute. Finally, before I lost my nerve, I took a step forward.
“Excuse me.”
Every time Ryan wore a tank top, there she was. Every time we went to the beach, she was there. Every time he turned over in bed, there she was.
Observing. Finally, curiosity won.
“Who is she?”
Ryan barely glanced at the tattoo. “Nobody.”
Not enough to start an argument, but enough to stick in my head.
Several years later, when we got engaged, I brought it up again. This time, she laughed.
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“So, who is she?”“My friend was learning realistic tattoos. He downloaded a random picture from the internet and needed someone to practice on.”
“It’s true.”
Even so, I knew he was lying. I just had no idea why.
After we got married, the tattoo started bothering me more and more. It wasn’t because I suspected Ryan was cheating on me. It was because people don’t tattoo a stranger’s face on their bodies forever.
Not like that. Not with that level of detail.
Finally, I asked her to cover up the tattoo. I wasn’t asking her to remove it. I just wanted something else. A compass. A mountain range. A dragon. Anything.
At first, he agreed. Then months passed. The tattoo artist changed. Money was tight. The work became more intense. There was always a new excuse.
Eventually, I stopped asking. Not because I didn’t care anymore, but because I was exhausted. Exhausted from missing out on the same conversation. Exhausted from feeling like I was competing with a woman whose name I didn’t even know.
So I learned to ignore it.
Or at least that’s what I thought.
Until last week.
I was standing in line at a bakery when the woman in front of me turned slightly. My stomach churned. I knew that face. Not from school, not from work, not from anywhere in my life.
For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Then she turned a little more. The same eyes. The same lips. Even the small mole near her chin. She’s older now, but she’s still her.
My hands started to tremble. I must have stared at her for almost a minute. Finally, before I lost my nerve, I took a step forward.
“Excuse me.”
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