’ She shifted her bag, hefting her great purse onto her shoulder and waddled to her car, leaving me stooping in a parking lot to ponder what she had...said. That evening after having a couple of stout shots of whiskey, I came up with an idea. I pulled up to the tattoo parlor and told them about my idea. The artist was a large, burly man with several tattoos of his own. He drew up a sketch and after bearing my shoulder, set about doing his work. The drinks I had earlier might have dulled my sense. ”“You can tell me if you want. But has someone ... some man you trusted ... hurt you.”“I ... not like that.”“Like what?”“Like me being young and family?”“So. Later.”“College.”“There’s a lot of that. Too much I think. I had friends who ... well, men were dicks to them too. I’d like to say I wasn’t, and maybe they don’t think men are always dicks. Women have to be so careful. Young women ... can be so vulnerable.”“And stupid.”“So you blame yourself?”“I was drunk. I let him invite himself in. Let. More

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