I used to tease her–“Your skin is so soft,” I’d say, “I want to peel it off you and wrap myself in it.” She would smile in reply, but her eyes were now cautious and alert as though I might actually do that.

When she invited me under her skin, I figured she was joking–all things considered. But she grabbed at the tattoo on her wrist and pulled up, revealing a small cavern.

I stuck a finger in. Then two. Then my left hand.

“Well,” she said blankly.

“Sorry,” I replied and climbed into the opening in her wrist. It was claustrophobic, and everything was tinted red.

I met a guy named “K” there. He was nice enough. “How long have you been here,” I asked this “K.” A long time, he said. He spoke of her fondly and of her wrist tattoo. I grew suspicious–because I was with her when she got that tattoo.

I attacked him in masculine rage. Then I felt myself being pulled from her skin.

“Look,” she said with disappointment. “I think we should see other people. Jealousy is so unattractive.”