April, 2000

An impulse tattoo is like buying a pack of chewing gum at the grocery checkout. This time it’s Florida, spring break, my best friend and I. Our birthdays are two days apart and we are almost like the same person. We giggle the same way. I know what she is thinking with just a look.

We want a tattoo that’s meaningful, something that displays the bond of our friendship. We decide on our shared astrological sign, the Gemini. It’s a roman numeral two, with a slight curve at the ends of the top two lines. We step into a dirty tattoo parlor. I wonder about hepatitis, but try to forget I thought about it in the first place.

The booth is small and cleaner than the front lobby. Our artist keeps pictures of colorful airbrushed naked ladies on the walls. Castor and Pollux would be proud.

We choose a place on the back of our necks and I get nervous and go first. Our artist doesn’t use a template, inks freehand and it’s unnerving. I can’t see until he’s done. I wonder if he’s creating the right design because I don’t want to walk around with the wrong design until I die. I am also afraid that the airbrushed naked ladies could create a distraction, cause a fluctuation in the consistency of the ink.

When it’s over, the artist hands me a mirror. Everything looks okay, simply backwards.

* * * * * * * * * *

May, 2000

I was six years old when I discovered that light was both a particle and a wave. I was lying in the grass on the far side of the creek that ran behind my parent’s house in Chicago.

I wanted to see if I could catch the particles. I tried but failed.