The first thing about this girl is her nails. They are coated in glitter. It’s the gold kind. Next, her red hair. Simple braidwork, loose travel strands. Then her face. She’s pretty and about sixteen years old. She’s the slightest presence in the world seated next to me. Her knees are like twigs.
She commences to do phone things and I turn to a book. It’s to do with a young woman coming into her own as a passionate, desirous person. She’s desired by various members of my gender, as is the way of things. Her thoughts interest me more than her actions.
Some hours in I’ve placed my book in the seat pocket. My shoulder aches. I’m well aware of the activities of those around me even as I feign interest in the flashing red light outside the window. The kid in front of me is flying a F-18 beneath his reading light. His dark-haired mother is asleep. Behind me I can hear the muffled laugh track of the sitcom playing on the overhead televisions. The girl next to me has been doodling on her left arm. She lifts it toward the seat ahead of her with her fist clenched.
-Do you do tattoos?
She laugh-sighs and retracts it to the safety of her lap.
-Oh, no. I’m just bored.
-And you’ve run out of space.
-Yea, I guess so.
-It’s good work.
-Oh, thank you.
-Can I ask you a favor?
She hesitates as anyone with sense should.
-Um, okay.
-Would you draw something for me?
-Oh, well I don’t have anything to draw on.
There’s a barf bag peeking out from the seat pocket. It isn’t what I had in mind.
-Well.
I lift my right sleeve to show her my wrist.
-What do you think? Nothing fancy.
She smiles and nods.
-Are you sure? I’m not an artist or anything.
-Sure am.
-Okay then.
-Cool.
She lifts her pen over the tendons and pauses.
-What kind of drawing?
-Anything. Whatever looks good to you. Like yours.
She presses the ballpoint to my skin and proceeds.
We discuss destinations, things we do as she works on my arm. She plays water polo. She started four weeks ago and still finds it difficult to stay afloat with the strength of her legs. I used to swim until the autumnal downpours. My shoulder really bothered me when I was in the water for too long.
I watch her glittery fingers work across my skin. The designs are reminiscient of Japanese whirlpools.
-Do you only draw on arms?
-Sometimes on my notes.
-You should try a blank canvas. This is good work.
-Maybe.
-At least now I know what I’ll look like when I get drunk and wake up with a tattoo on my wrist.
And she laughs.
When she finishes she removes the phone from her bag and photographs the elaborate piece on her arm. She turns to me.
-May I?
I lift my right wrist into the light. She captures a portion from my lower palm to the first quarter of my forearm. The ink has begun to lose its shimmer. She may have drawn an ornate octopus.
I look at my wrist in the light.
-This is awesome. Thank you.
-Your welcome.
She returns the phone to her bag. I lay the back of my closed hand on my book and stretch my neck toward the ceiling.
I glance at my wrist when we’re off the plane and she’s gone. I listen to the clipping feet and conversations. I think of her in a busy parlor with a tattoo needle in hand. I start to feel fatherly of her. She’s going to go through things and I want her to make it to the other side.
