BetrayStoriesThe Tattoo He Came Home With That Was Never Just His
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Anders spent fifteen years telling me tattoos were for people who couldn't commit to anything, and then one rainy Tuesday he came home with one.
I heard the front door, the slow scrape of his shoes on the mat, the particular silence of a man rehearsing. He found me in the kitchen, rolled up his left sleeve like he was unveiling a magic trick, and there it was on the inside of his forearm: a thin geometric design, three interlocking triangles inside a broken circle, sharp and deliberate, the lines so fine they looked drawn in pen.
"You hate tattoos," I said.
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