She has lines of scars on her arm and a smile on her face. A single paw print tattoo settles lovingly on her left forearm like a friend reaching out to stop the pain.
“Does it have a special meaning?” the artist had asked, eying the reference.
“My Precious just died. This is her print,” she had said. Her voice quieted, “it’s a reminder. She wouldn’t want me to do it again.”
The artist had glanced at the scars, gaze knowing.
Burning intensity turns into warm black curves under the buzz of an ink gun.