The Morning After

Invisible Ink

6/18 8:03 PM
    I hung towards the rear of our group, choosing primarily to listen as the others talked vivaciously. The night was still warm, even up the mountain, and as the light receded behind the trees the city appeared to grow more awake. The smell of pizza and spilled liquor was prominent, and the wind seemed to howl with laughter, as it permeated throughout the streets from crowded bars and restaurants.
    I waited for the awkward lapse in conversation to come, but it never did. Instead, we filled the streets with banter as we drifted in and out of shops. Across the road there were men throwing catcalls at us , but we payed them no mind. That is, apart from Tate carelessly flipping them off, displaying her finger nonchalantly as Caesar laughed in encouragement.
    I was engrossed in the dynamics of it all, observing every little detail as if I could absorb it through osmosis to understand it better. I didn't know why Tate's morbid disposition fit so well with Caesar's perpetual state of zen, or why I felt so giddy standing in the eighteen and up section of a smoke shop as the rest perused pipes and bowls. I couldn't comprehend why Caesar's lanky, towering figure- clad entirely in green and purple plaid- was so comforting to me in a crowd, or why the blend of Bea and Tate's voices created such a melodic tune when intermixed with the cacophony of urban sounds. But it did. It all, when strung together lazily through our careless exploration, made me feel so content.
    Which is perhaps why when Bea drastically spun around from her place at the head of the our pack, and announced she wanted a tattoo, that I went along with it.
    It was no shock that Bea liked tattoos, or that she wanted one for herself, the real shock came when, in the middle of a street no less, she demanded I draw her something to get permanently etched into her skin.
    Her words still made me choke, a strangled "what?", making its way from my lips.
    "Yeah, I want something you've drawn on me. Just sketch something; Here, I have a pen." She was being so nonchalant about it, exactly the opposite of what one would normally expect from Bea.
    Caesar and Tate shrugged, inputting that we did still have an our to kill before the gathering commenced. And so, on the back of a receipt dug out of my bag, I drew a tattoo. It was nothing, literally, just three words in small writing, and I felt silly choosing them. But nonetheless, Bea beamed when she saw it. It was a joke, and a question, an examination of the perspective of human morality and existence.

Humans Aren't Real

    Dumb, really, looking back on it. But we liked it, and it made sense, even Tate gave a nod of approval.
And so our trek began, in search of a tattoo willing to take an eighteen year old walk in with a design on a crumpled piece of paper, intermixing with the words of an Ingles cashier.
. . .
    We used Caesar's phone for GPS, blindly following him as he fucked up in every direction. We hiked up every side street and alley, trailing tirelessly behind our guide. The sun was beginning to set by the time we found our way to a main road, and our spirits, excluding Bea's, had all visibly dulled. Still, she happily chirped about her tattoo as we j-walked for the fifth time.
It took eleven more minutes for us to locate a shop (the only regulation being that they have more than four stars on Yelp), and three for us to argue about whether or not we had enough time. Eventually Bea, impatient and impulsive as ever before, pulled me with her in to the parlor and practically demanded service.
I was sure it was a sight, Bea in a dress (it was actually mine) that barely covered all her parts, waving a receipt enthusiastically as Caesar and Tate listlessly backed her. However the artist behind the counter hardly blinked as he gazed back at us. It took sixty bucks and a few tight hand holds, but within thirty minutes we were on the street again.
At this point Caesar practically dragged us back to his car, holding Tate hostage by the wrist as he all but ran through traffic.
    Inside the car was a mess, with Bea nursing her inflamed skin, and Caesar skidding around curves muttering curses under his breath, Tate and I watched on in an amalgamation of confusion, terror and entertainment, exchanging bemused glances for the entirety of the ride.
    When Caesar finally parked, in the lot of an abandoned furniture store, no less, it was 10:31.

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Two things:
First, I'm sorry this is so short. This chapter was necessary, but really pretty boring to write.
Second, I'm sorry I went on an unannounced hiatus, again, this was a boring chapter, and I have a full time job. But that's all I have in the way of excuses, otherwise I hope you enjoyed and that you're having a wonderful summer. :)
I promise that the next update will be soon.