#one tiny memory

I had a nightmare last night.

I remember it so vividly. I was in a tattoo parlor, not your typical Brooklyn hipster tattoo parlor but a shady, under the radar Asian Art Museum tattoo parlor. It was a Chinese massage place meets underground cocaine ring. J had just left, I don't know why, and soon I was sitting at a table having something tattooed to my back. I couldn't see the tattoo artist, just her arm and a loose sheaf of papers she was working from. I could tell she was, like the rest, Pacific Islander. She owned her space, a massive presence with long black hair and the attitude of someone in charge. It was getting dark. I stayed in my seat. 

Across from me, resting his tattooed arms on a dingy restaurant table cloth, was a younger Pacific Islander, with characters from a language his ancestors knew (and he wanted to know) marked permanently on his forearms. Silence. I wanted to leave. I had to go, but I couldn't. The woman had an iron grip, there was no protesting. I kept asking what she was tattooing and she wouldn't say. I kept saying that I wanted to leave and was met with only laughs. 'Even if you go, we can still arrest you for not paying your bill.' A police officer stands guard. The hours pass.