our tattoos.

PART THREE Elanoor Franklin and Christopher Hardy

Christopher was leaning weakly against his wall, sobbing into the phone. "And I just pushed her off me, San. Like I despised her. But I don't San, I love her. I love her hair, and her hands, and her art, and her perfume, and her smile, and her small laugh. I love her. But I just pushed her away!" His bony shoulders were shaking violently, aching as they rubbed against the wall of his apartment not only blocks from the Milkshake Shop.

"Maybe it wasn't your fault. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was pretending to be hurt so you would cry and think that she thinks that you think that you hated her. Maybe she is just evil," Sandra reasoned sourly. 

"Why do you hate humans so much? Humans are beautiful," Christopher asked. 

"Humans are NOT beautiful, you little ignorant boy. Humans are destructive and rude and sneaky and they are ruining themselves!" Sandra barked.

Christopher winced as her loud retort echoed into his ear. "But San, they're not. They are lovely and smart and helpful and unique and capable."

"Capable of lethal deceiving," Sandra huffed. 

"What ever made you think that?" Christopher sniffed. 

"I was at the University of Michigan and I met a wonderful man named George. He was spectacular. Quite the gentleman." Sandra paused, needing to take a deep breath so the wave of tears stayed in her eyes and didn't spill over. "I was like his favorite mug of coffee. He used me everyday, filled me up, made me steaming hot. He loved me. Or, so I thought. I was his favorite mug of coffee, but turns out he likes many different flavors." You could hear Sandra's voice crack at the last word. 

Christopher knew he should try to comfort her, to at least say something, but he was frozen. He couldn't convince his vocal cords to work, no matter how hard he tried to. He didn't know what to say or if to hang up or when to take another breath. 

How could I not know this, he thought to himself. How could I be such an egotistical jerk? Now walking when I'm upset is one thing, but not knowing my own sister's heartbreak? That says something. 

"Do.. do y-you have a.. a t-tattoo?" Christopher asked, tripping over his own words. 

Sandra took another deep breath. She looked down at the bottom of her left foot. A coffee mug, imprinted of perfect proportion with three wavy steam streaks above the one-inch cup. Sandra was lucky. The Tattoos could appear anywhere, and if the love happened to end in heartbreak, it would be favorable the tattoo rest on the bottom of your foot so you wouldn't have to look at it as often. 

Tears rushed to Sandra's eyes every time she dare peek at the ink stain. It wasn't only a tattoo reminding her of the way he used look at her and the way it made her heart quake and her legs quiver when she stood up. It reminded her of the nights she stayed up crying the great lakes and the classes she took but her head was spinning to hard and her eyes were so watery and blurry that she couldn't see her notes. 

"Yes."