She was topless, staring at a tattoo on her right ribcage–flowery script, four lines deep. A towel was in a pile at her feet; she had been readying to take a shower.

We locked eyes in the mirror.

“This wasn’t here last night,” she said to me but probably more to herself.

I grew defensive. “What do you want me to do about it?” I left the bathroom, shutting the door behind me–shutting her in there with her new and nonconsensual tattoo.

……….

I knew that tattoo. It was the same one my ex-girlfriend got on her right ribs. A verse from some obsequious poem. “It reminds me of you, K,” she had said.

When we were breaking up she bragged of planning to have it removed: “It’ll be like taking off a dress.”

……….

The sobs from the other side of the bathroom door continued. I slid a business card under the door (tattoo removal; complements of my ex-girlfriend, who left a pile in front of my door the day she moved out) and left.

……….

Two months later a shrill scream woke me. I knew what it meant. I fished a business card from my wallet and reached for my keys.