+ MAY ( @deathmaycome )
LATE AFTERNOON, 2ND JUNE 2020. TATTOO & PIERCINGS PARLOUR. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman dealing with the fallout of a breakup must do something drastic with her appearance to cope. There’s some magic to change — an evolution to shed the way she looked before, back when love was lost, in the hope that looking different might ensure the same outcome doesn’t happen next time.
Or, maybe, Kitty is just bored and angry and wants to do something that’s her own; that Saint hasn’t seen; that Saint will never see. She doesn’t cut or dye her hair because hair is everything and she knows how she looks with it cut short ( read: not good ). And she doesn’t get a tattoo, even though she spends a day looking at ideas on Pinterest while drinking a bottle of room-temperature Cobra sent over by her parents in a we’re-sorry-you’re-feeling-down hamper after she lied through her teeth about why she burst into tears during dinner last week— which, anyway, isn’t the point because she’s not thinking about that now.
She’s thinking about the nipple piercings she’s due to get in this oddly disinfectant-scented tattoo and piercings parlour decorated with a strange assortment of items, from neon-light signs that say things like fearless to the empty-socket skull of small deer staring back at her from the receptionist’s desk. Impatiently restless at having to wait for her appointment, her gaze lands on the only other not-staff person in the black-painted-walls black-tiled room. “Hey,” she says, bouncing her knee lightly, a small frown sweeping across a bare face. “You ever had your nipples pierced? You seem like the sort of hot devil-may-care type person who would.”
