In my defense, Jenna dragged me to Red Fox Tattoo. Well, the first time, she definitely dragged me there. So it’s her fault. 

My roommate and best friend since college, Jenna, woke me up at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday, babbling something about flash tattoos and a new artist at Red Fox—how this artist was training with the owner, and her tattoos were basically free.

By nine that morning, she had me shuffling along beside her with an iced latte she bribed me with and my sunglasses on. It was just like our walk of shame mornings back in school—her from the frat houses, me from the dorm rooms of closeted football players—only with more expensive bribes.

She was yapping on and on about flash this and flash that, but my brain was fully on vacation. I almost knocked her over when she stopped in front of that tiny green building, all tucked away between the warehouses across from the park. I’d seen it dozens of times from the window of my studio. But I’d never noticed it. I didn’t