Like a Tattoo (Raura)

Chapter 11

Laura's POV

With a few days off from Flat White this week, my schedule's been fairly empty. I've been going daily to the open-space park near Vanessa's apartment to fill the time by learning my dance routines.

I freeze in the final position of the routine for about five seconds, and survey for the bystanders watching me who now avert their eyes to pretend they weren't staring. Letting a light smirk flash on my face, I retrieve my water bottle and tilt my head up to welcome the rivulet of water.

Out of the corner of my eye I unexpectedly spot something comfortingly familiar: blond hair. I do a half-spit take of my water and discretely attempt to wipe the excess liquid from my chin. Frantically I scan the trees for anyone who might have seen that, but more importantly, for the man I left in America.

He's not there. Instead it's a different tall blond who could be Ross's hair twin, though as the blond passes by his complexion doesn't resemble Ross's at all.

I groan and throw my head back. Not Ross again, I complain to my subconscious.

This isn't a first occurrence for me, rather it's as if any movement I make sets off a booby trap that drags Ross out from the back of my mind. Earlier today I was eating pancakes for breakfast, and for some absurd reason I remembered how Ross prefers French toast to pancakes or waffles.

It's so predictable now. I can imagine I'll see Ross leaning against the lamppost in front of the apartment building when I go back.

A couple weeks ago I attempted to push the illusions aside and center my attention on dance, but then the hallucinations only became more frequent after that. I can never admit these apparitions to Ross. I doubt he'll poke fun at me, but maybe he'll believe there's some hidden meaning behind the delusions. I think I've figured them out, but I don't want him to know. I don't even want to admit it to myself.

Apathetically I collect my portable speaker and water bottle in my hands, placing the two in my Harry Potter tote bag. I can't say if it's because I'm consciously aware of Ross's lingering presence, but on my walk back to the apartment I don't see any tall blonds.

The stores beside the sidewalk warily run past me. First the boutique with mannequins and wigs in the window, then the bakery, then the second-hand bookstore, then Inked! Tattoos.

I stare down at my own pallid, unblemished skin covered with a fine layer of SPF 30. A human's shadow grays my arm, and I lift my gaze to connect with Ross's. I can't speak for unknown reasons as his keen fingers reverently latch onto where I'd been inspecting my skin. I stare down at his touch until I notice his other arm snake around my waist and dotingly pull my mouth to his.

I gasp. Then I jerk back. Until now there hasn't been any physical contact. Only mirages. 

What is happening to me? 

I blink again to see a blank sidewalk where Ross just was. Looking over my shoulder, I see a lamppost and a fire hydrant there. I backtrack until I'm even with the tattoo shop.

Ross isn't here, or at least I can't see him. But I can hear his footsteps following me, and that's all it takes to chase me into the tattoo place with sudden determination.

A bell above the door rings when I enter. Inside, there's an intricate layout similar to a hair salon, but with a far more edgy tone. The myriad of chairs resemble dentists' chairs and massage tables, and covered in black leather they send a warm chill down my spine. Elaborate designs on strangers' arms blanket the ceiling and the walls, save one out of the four that bares an obsession with fake skulls.

"How may I help you?" a voice croaks out. I follow the origin of the sound and it traces itself to a man taller than Ross. The man's shirt is one of a rock band whose legacy we all seem to forget, tucked behind the burly belt buckle suspending his painter's jeans. His copper hair is drawn into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, his untrimmed goatee the opposite.