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really my style.”
    I changed the subject. “So you like it? Being a tattoo artist?”
    My curiosity was genuine, as was my long-standing interest in body art and art in general. It had played a significant role in my decision to pursue a master’s in sociology. It gave me a valid reason to focus on what most considered social deviance. After the crash I turned toward what I really loved—art and modification, delving deeper into subcultures and extreme factions. My advisor, whose school of thought was rather antiquated, seemed to have a difference of opinion on the direction my thesis proposal should take.
    “I get to be an artist and not starve, so that’s a bonus. Some of the tattoos can be boring, standard shit, but the pieces I get to design? Those are the ones that make the job worth doing. I don’t think there’s anything quite as gratifying as creating art out of someone’s experiences. Well, some things are more gratifying.” He looked me over, his perusal blatant. “Are you hiding any ink under those clothes?”
    “No,” I lied. I rooted around in a box to conceal my face lest he press for more information.
    “I think you’d look good with my art on your body.” Judging from the rapacious gleam in his eye, his phrasing was purposeful. “Anyway, the offer stands. You should come by again when you have a chance, maybe stay longer than two minutes. I can show you my albums, and you can show me your idea for ink. Maybe I could work on you.”
    “Okay, maybe.” I didn’t miss the dig at my boomerang visits, or that he’d noticed them in the first place.
    “I’ll take maybe over no.”
    I’d been working on a sketch for a long time; even before the crash I’d had several ideas for tattoos. Originally the piece had just been art, but it had changed in the past several months into a symbol of my loss. It would be rather revealing to hand something so personal over to Hayden.
    “Did you design any of your own tattoos?”
    “Most of them.” Hayden shoved the sleeve of his shirt up above his elbow and held his arm out toward me, the inside facing up.
    There was an anatomically correct heart wrapped in thorny vines set close to the crease in his elbow. Blood ran down the vines in rivulets, dripping from the thorns. Budding flowers juxtaposed the darkness of the piece, tempering it. As the flowers moved away from the heart, the tiny blossoms became more vibrant and open. Hayden rotated his forearm, and on the other side, the same vines traveled from his wrist to his elbow, but they were thicker. The ones at his wrist were dry and cracking, the flowers dying, petals falling off, but as they closed in on his elbow the flowers exploded into life, pulled into a wave of water. The head of an orange-and-white fish peeked out from his sleeve, the rest of the design obscured.
    I reached out to touch a length of vine on his forearm and hesitated, seeking permission. “May I?”
    “You asking to feel me up?”
    “Um—”
    “Sorry, you’re easy to rile, it’s hard to resist. Be my guest.”
    He rested his arm on his knee, palm up, hand relaxed and open. He didn’t look all that sorry with the way he was smiling, but I was too curious, and he was willing. The muscles in his arm flexed when I traced the vines leading to the heart. The inside of his forearm seemed a sensitive place to tattoo. Wherever there was color, the skin was slightly raised, not by much, but enough that I could feel the dimension of the design.
    “This must have taken a long time. Did it hurt a lot?”
    “Pain is relative, isn’t it?”
    I gave him a quizzical look.
    “These—” He skimmed my ear. “They hurt, right?”
    “Sure, but not much.” Disappointment followed when he dropped his hand.
    “But there’s still gratification in the pain, yeah?”
    I nodded, even if I couldn’t be sure how much I agreed with that statement. Hayden must have picked up on my uncertainty.
    “Any kind of modification, whether it’s to