I looked at her hands. They were covered in eraser tattoos—a constellation of pale, shiny scars. The first one had faded to a silvery half-moon. Then came a star on her wrist (the night we snuck into the reservoir). A small heart near her elbow (the day her father left). A jagged line across her knuckles (the week we thought we’d lost each other to high school and stupid fights).
She touched it gently with her opposite thumb. “What do you call this one?” eraser tattoo short story pdf
When I finished, the wound was deep. A red crater. A brand. I looked at her hands