by Debra Hyde
A cool, sticky touch flinched Liv from her thoughts.
“Sorry,” Elwood apologized. “Just some petroleum ointment. Lengthens the life of the transfer.”
“It's okay,” Liv answered. “You caught me lost in thought.”
“I'm about ready to start. Breathe regularly and feel free to ask me to slow down anytime the pain gets to be too much. Otherwise, I'll just dab as needed, okay?”
Liv nodded. “Okay.”
“Nice, deep cleansing breath, and relax,” Elwood coaxed, lulling Liv to trust the process.
The needle jackhammered into Liv's skin. Flesh or bone, pain riddled her. Unlike a flogger or a cane, the pain of which Liv knew how to process, it did not wax and wane. Pointed and puncturing, it simply assaulted her, a machine gun in microcosm. Yet somehow, the pain soon plateaued and, once level, Liv felt a familiar dope-like sway take hold—endorphins, come to aid her. Pain and pleasure met, merged, and dosed Liv in their inoculating brew. Had her last tattoo had been this inebriating? It seemed not, but then again, no one had thrown a blindfold into the mix.
The nebulous haze, however, did not keep Liv from sensing certain details. The fineness of the needle's magnum meant detailed line work. When Elwood changed needles but not magnums, it meant a significant amount of line work. And as the pattern grew upon her skin, Liv wondered if the mark would have any color or shading at all.
Still, mystery abounded, and discerning what the tattoo actually represented eluded Liv. Elwood worked with a certain repetitiveness, aside from the usual ink-then-wipe procedure, suggesting something of a repeating pattern, geometric perhaps. And his exacting pace spoke of meticulousness. His focus and lack of fluster, however, said he was more than up to the job.
A second mystery taunted her like a sprite dancing about and daring capture. But this enigma was an unlikely sweet spice, inscrutable and perplexing: her yearning for Cassandra. Like the act of tattooing, it mixed pain and pleasure, but where the needle punctured her skin, yearning punctured her heart. That she had given in to it was yet another fascination. There had been no cat-and-mouse flirtation, no courtship per se. Neither Liv nor Cassandra knew each other's general likes and dislikes in life, whether they had enough in common to warrant coupling up. Was “a life together” even remotely part of the game plan?
No, their approach had been different, esoteric. Swept up in lust's adrenaline, they had each dived into the deep end of desire's dark pool and met there, one to the other, as dominant and submissive. The rough play of sadomasochism had been their catechism and, awash in it, believers both, they had never considered any other creed.
Liv smiled, still amazed that she had yielded to the siren's song. Yet there she was, under Cassandra's blindfold, under the influence of her own body's opiates, waxing in joy. Euphoric, she endured, knowing that Cassandra would soon claim her.
* * * *
Liv did not see the tattoo until she was alone at home. True to his promise, Reese saw her home and to a soothing cup of tea, making his exit only after he was satisfied that she would spend the ensuing hours basking in the glowing high of her experience. His only remark: “Follow Elwood's instructions.” Which meant keeping the sterile pad over the tattoo taped in place until late evening.
She knew it was standard operating procedure to keep the ink covered for the first several hours of its existence, and she had a common diaper rash ointment on hand for its first ministrations. But when she finally allowed herself to remove the bandage, what she saw undulating across her wrist took her breath away.
It was the mathematical symbol for infinity. Quantity without bound or end. The words popped into her mind, memorized long ago.
Yet the tattoo was not the common figure-eight depiction. Elwood had adorned her with something far more complex: infinity inked in a grid pattern. And it turned upon itself—a Mobius strip, Liv realized. It seemed vaguely familiar, but memory failed to bubble up an answer.
Dutifully, she washed her hands and applied the ointment to the mark. Touching it, her fingers slick, she wondered what was limitless. Cassandra's ownership of her? The demands she would make? Would Cassandra be an overarching mistress, one who would exact minutiae from Liv or trip her up over trifles?
Or could it be the Buddhist representation of infinity? The twisted Mala, symbolizing the endlessness of existence via birth, death, and rebirth? Certainly, Liv felt a semblance of rebirth, a renewal of spirit, a heightened sense of existence, in the weeks since Cassandra had delved into her.
Liv chuckled. Maybe Cassandra had it wrong, she thought, keeping with Buddhist thought. Maybe I'm not a darling. Maybe I'm an infinitesimal. But just as dutifully as she cared for the tattoo, she cast the idea aside. It wasn't hers to have—she wasn't hers to name. She was Cassandra's. And she would be whatever Cassandra wanted.
Chapter Seven: Transition
The note arrived two days after the tattooing, its message beguiling. I'm pleased, L. Very pleased. Now you are indentured in earnest. I want you to clear your weekend calendar for the next month, Friday evening through Sunday evening. If you have any significant barriers to this task, speak up and I will assess the matter. But do not bother me with minor hurdles. Those, you can jump. Call Reese and tell him either way.
Liv knew she had nothing to bar her compliance. No family obligations would impede her. Her semester demanded nothing beyond its designated schedule of classes. The only real impact she could think of was grading her coursework, but Cassandra would see that as a minor hurdle, one that required nothing more than a little tightening of time management. That, she could jump.
She called Reese but got his voice mail.
“No barriers,” she reported. “I'm free as requested.”
Later, a text message beeped in.
Good, but it wasn't a request. Remember that. Call me when the last scab falls off your tattoo.
Liv looked at the tattoo. Bulked with scabbing, it would need at least a good two weeks to fully heal. More waiting. Dismayed, Liv thought, at least I'm practiced at it.
She returned Reese's text, reporting her estimated time frame. To which he answered the weekends will start then.
For all her practice, Liv dreaded the possibility that these next two weeks would feel like an eternity.
Liv began to mark time in terms of the tattoo. Each day, she softened the scabbing with moisturizer, once in the morning and again in the evening. Each day, she watched for any flecking and, when a portion fell away, whatever peek of tattoo she could see. She told the Weirs that, in coming weeks, she'd be away on weekends, working on a “collaborative project.” When colleagues caught sight of the tattoo, she shrugged and said, “I geeked out.” She assumed they'd consider the tat another step in her recent weirdness. Either way, plausible deniability became her modus operandi.
The tattoo did, however, force her to confront an agreement she'd tacitly skirted: sharing these developments with Quinn. She should have kept her apprised of the steps she'd taken, the experiences she'd had, but, alight with the pleasure of seeking and of being sought after and indulging in the joy pure such efforts awarded her, she had avoided Quinn. Selfish, she knew, but it had been so long since she'd felt so unbridled—even, ironically, as Cassandra took up the metaphorical reins—that Liv dodged her responsibility to her. She could not bring herself to taint the euphoria of these last weeks with his too-serious skepticism.
But now, with the tattoo emblazoned on her wrist and a sense that she'd gone too far without making so much as a courtesy call, Liv could not ignore the loose end she had created. Guilt burdened her and, wary of the conflict that her neglect might cause, she asked Quinn if she could join her on her next dog-walking jaunt.
“The dog park,” she answered. “Friday at five o'clock.”
The dog park, and not long before dark. Quinn didn't offer her the leisure and intimacy of a long walk in the woods, tossing sticks and calling her jovial mutts to her. Instead, Quinn offered her the dog lover's equivalent of a b
reakup restaurant.
Or so she thought.
But when Quinn tossed a tennis ball her way with think-fast speed, her grin and laughter startled her. With two large dogs barreling down on her, Liv just as quickly pitched the ball back, narrowly avoiding a canine collision. Spinning on a dime, they raced back toward Quinn. Throwing the ball off into a distant corner, she came to Liv, wiping her hands on her pants and laughing about dog spit.
“Sorry,” she apologized, pulling a handkerchief from her back pocket and offering it to Liv. “I forgot about the slime.”
Orange. As in anything goes. It reminded Liv of the night that put everything into motion.
“Go ahead,” Quinn urged. “Use it.”
She struck Liv as completely convivial. Had Liv, in her guilt, amplified her feelings and misread Quinn's invitation? It certainly seemed so. Quinn's bigger dogs started sprinting around the field with a greyhound, the tennis ball a forgotten prerogative.
Quinn motioned Liv to follow her. “Come on. We better retrieve it before another dog finds it.” Trotting off to that distant corner, her hound-mix Hubble at her side, Quinn seemed as happy as the dogs that surrounded her. Maybe Liv hadn't read Quinn wrong. Maybe this place just made her forget all her worries. Tentatively, Liv followed, wiping her hands clean and hoping that the odds lay in her favor.
Less tentatively, Liv broached her subject at hand, sure that if she didn't jab it into the open, she'd lose her courage and retreat.
“Remember how I promised you a postmortem? On Cassandra?”
Quinn retrieved the ball, turned to face Liv, bouncing the ball in her hand. To Liv's surprise, Quinn's demeanor didn't hardened.
“Yeah?”
“It's time.”
“Okay.” Quinn remained nonplussed. To Liv's utter confusion. What happened to Quinn's contrary caution? Liv hardly knew where to begin now, given this unexpected advantage. Her nervous agitation rising, she motioned to a nearby bench.
“Let's sit.”
They took to the bench, Hubble lying at their feet and watching the commotion around them. Quinn's bigger dogs—Neal, a tan shepherd/hound mix, and Tyson, a black-and-tan Rottie mix—returned, their sights once again narrowed on the tennis ball. Quinn flung the ball and set them racing. Nearby, a gathering of Newfoundland owners mingled—“the Newfies.” Quinn chuckled. Liv hoped this talk would be as placid as the breed and as laid back as the owners.
“So”—Liv gulped—“I've been making progress with Cassandra.”
Quinn nodded, her gaze watching her dogs tussle over the ball.
“I thought you should know.”
“I know.”
Quinn's tone startled Liv. She knew? But how?
She turned to Liv. “Reese's kept me posted.”
Liv blushed, beet red. Reese? He ran interference for her?
Quinn burst out laughing at Liv's shock and gregariously hugged her. “Sorry! It's not every day I see you blush.”
Liv stared at the ground, embarrassed and confused.
Quinn sobered and almost began to explain herself when the bigger dogs returned, Neil commanding the ball. She got the ball from the dog, hyped them up with pretend throws, then tossed the ball hard enough for a first-to-third throw. Even Hubble chased after it, scampering as best his short old legs would carry him. Liv marveled. So that was how Quinn kept her arm in shape all year for women's softball.
But Reese—
“Reese,” she ventured. “That's a surprise.”
“Obviously.” Quinn chuckled. “Listen, he knew I'd be a curmudgeon about it and he knows you and I are close. He really advocated for you, L.”
L? Hearing that, Liv turned to Quinn and stared at her.
“Yeah, I know about it and it's okay.” A Cheshire cat grin spread across her face. Quinn was in on everything. Liv sighed, rolled up her sleeve, and turned her wrist toward her.
“What do you think?”
“Wow,” Quinn marveled. “One of Escher's infinities.”
Escher! So that was why it seemed familiar! Liv turned it toward herself.
“I didn't know it was Escher.”
“Well, Escher minus the ants. The original had red ants marching along the grid.”
Liv look at Quinn and finally smiled. “Ew! Glad I didn't know.” She paused, feeling the ice finally melt. “So you're really okay with this?”
Quinn nodded. “I didn't think it possible, but Reese convinced me to come to the dark side.”
“How'd he pull that off?” Liv couldn't imagine moving Quinn from her inner default of gruff caution.
Hubble returned, panting, his tail wagging. Quinn leaned forward and gave the dog a hearty ear-rubbing, cooing like a daddy to a toddler. When the dog had enough and pulled away, Quinn leaned back and turned to Liv.
“See how satisfied that made Hubble?” she observed. “I guess Reese reminded me that that's what he found with Cassandra. He asked me if I remembered how he was before he began serving her. Sure I did. He was miserable. He was one of the first women around here to transition and our community was way too knee-jerk about it. For a long time, he floundered. Come to think of it, that's when our friendship became solid. Because I respected the choice he made. I stood by him.”
Quinn paused, her gaze distant and focused somewhere other than the dog park. Neil and Tyson came to her and, interrupting her thoughts, prompted her to command them to lie down. Each received a good petting before Quinn continued.
Finally, she sighed.
“I didn't know he'd met up with Cassandra until after he'd become her personal assistant. I'll confess, I wasn't happy about it back then. But he damn well was, and I had to admit that serving Cassandra worked for him. So why wouldn't it work for you, he asked me?”
Quinn turned to Liv, her smile slight, hinting at how difficult it had been for her to acquiesce. She shrugged. “Besides, Reese told me a few things about Cassandra that, I guess, sat okay with me.”
Liv perked up. “Really? Like what?”
Quinn laughed, brightening a bit. “Like she hasn't had nearly the amount of dick everyone thinks she has. She's not nearly the opportunistic bisexual she lets people think she is.”
Exhilaration shot through Liv. Maybe Cassandra's boundaries weren't so different from hers after all. But why didn't she dissuade people from decades-old misinformation?
Quinn chuckled when Liv posed the question. “One thing that's true about Cassandra? She likes notoriety. Without it, she'd be just another person in the scene. With it, she always draws attention.”
Liv nodded. “I guess if you cultivate a certain kind of image long enough, then you come to rely on it.”
With that, it felt like they'd taken consensus as far as it could go and, with the sun setting fast, Quinn wanted to get the dogs back to her SUV and on her way home.
“It won't be long,” she said, “before we'll be short on daylight.”
Opening the door and standing aside as her dogs scrambled into the vehicle, she nodded to Liv's wrist. “And if I'm any judge of that tattoo, L, it won't be long in healing either.”
Quinn hugged Liv in farewell, radiating acceptance. Grateful, Liv thanked Quinn, nearly tearful at her warm approval. Her voice cracked, andQuinn pulled away and held her by the shoulders.
“I'm here for you,” she pledged.
Quinn's firm grip affirmed her vow and when she finally made for the driver's seat, Liv let a tear or two escape, wiping her eyes only after she was sure Quinn wouldn't see her in her rearview mirror. Blubbering over her good fortune wasn't Liv's idea of a fond farewell.
Or L's.
That tattoo, Quinn had called it. Liv had another name for it: Cassandra's tattoo. Or the tattoo. Anything but her tattoo. It wasn't hers to own.
Still, when she returned home from seeing Quinn, she went straight to her computer and searched for a repository of M.C. Escher's works. There, she found it: Mobius Strip II (Red Ants). Unlike the tattoo that draped her wrist, it ran vertical. And unli
ke the meticulous grid that graced her flesh, the actual print teemed with ants. Liv shivered, her skin crawling with visceral awareness.
Yet that instinctive reaction had a rough Zen quality to it, as if she and the tattoo were one. Had the tattoo redefined her body? Liv shivered again, shaking off both the meta- and the metaphysical.
It's a tattoo, she told herself. Not an alpha and omega.
That night, Liv rubbed moisturizer into what remained of the scab, pleased with the progress of its healing. For every scab that fell away, more detail emerged upon her skin. And with every scab that fell away, she came closer to making that phone call to Reese.
One ritual complete, she commenced with another, taking the Tenerife token out from under her pillow and freshening it with a dab of Cabochard. She remembered Cassandra's taste and ached for more.
Yes, soon the tattoo would heal. Soon, L would emerge, perhaps a small butterfly to Cassandra's great, winged majesty, but emerge she would. And L would be Cassandra's, ready to do the woman's bidding. Awash in anticipation, Liv shivered as that Zen state overtook her again. Yet a dissonance flared too, and Liv shook off the soaring rhetoric for the rational.
It's only a tattoo.
She climbed into bed, naked and aware that this mantra of realism sounded vaguely familiar. Drowsy, the answer came to her: Alastair Sim as Scrooge, as he dared meet the ghost's hollow gaze.
“You—you might be an undigested bit of beef.”
Too sleepy to care, she slipped the lace under pillow, completely unaware that, as she did, the last bit of the scab fell away.
Chapter Eight: Sunderland
Liv waited on the sidewalk, wearing the Cassandra-approved outfit, carrying only a purse. Dusk quickly darkened around her, its chill making her clutch at the collar of her sweater, her only allowance against the weather as per Cassandra. Given the leeway, Liv selected it because it best accented the femininity of the outfit and kept to the spirit of Cassandra's generosity. But it did little against the night.