Erin refused.
“Why?” I asked.
She looked toward Brad.
“Plastic doesn’t flinch.”
Practice skin couldn’t feel pain.
Couldn’t pull away.
Couldn’t regret trusting her.
At the time, Brad worked around the center doing maintenance and helping with general programs.
He overheard the conversation.
Then, without hesitation, he rolled up his sleeve.
“Okay,” he had said. “Use mine.”
Erin thought he was joking.
He wasn’t.
With her licensed instructor beside her, Erin tattooed one small sunflower onto Brad’s arm.
The stem shook slightly.
One petal came out uneven.
A tiny accidental dot appeared beside the flower.
“I thought I had ruined it,” Erin said.
Brad had simply looked down at his arm.
“Looks like a sunflower to me.”
Her eyes filled with tears again.
I looked at my husband.
He was staring at the floor as if somehow this story embarrassed him.
I couldn’t understand why.
