I’ve never threatened to ask her about the bits of her body she subjected to permanence. I’d never seen her as the “type”— not that I still foolishly place too much weight in such arbitrary classifications— to get piercings or tattoos, and while it was certainly true that the double ear piercings and upper cartilage piercings were only just becoming fashionable — or at the least, “mainstream”— while we were in high school, other piercings were still a few cautionary looks away from being socially acceptable without any stigma— and we’re only talking about visible piercings, mind you.

So it was a surprise when we stumbled upon each other— our paths in college crossing rarely and randomly after freshman year— and I noticed the shiny crystalline stud on the right side of her nose. And maybe I had poked fun at her then— the fading sting of the high school crush I had harbored for so long— but I didn’t ever find out why she wanted to get that tiny sparkle on her nose. It’s still there, only today it’s a clearer and brighter stone— if not diamond, then a something simulated and very similar— catching and magnifying light. And in her left eyebrow, I can sometimes catch the remnants of a piercing— one I’ve never seen— removed and dulled with the heal of time.

There is ink on her body— too— in this strange knotted shape above the protrusion of her left hip, angular and curved at the same time. Seeing it first obscured by her underwear, I mistook it for a birthmark at first, but many casually close inspections later, I was certain it was a tattoo— deliberate, drawn, and marked. I’ve fantasized about its genesis, maybe some strange art she’s come across in her wildly liberal arts education, or maybe a stylized doodle to cover the name or mark of a past lover. I’ve fingered it gently, my mouth buried between her thighs and tongue moving in ways to shut her eyes so she wouldn’t catch my eyes lingering over the mysterious mark. I’ve caught myself focusing on it as I look down while my hips push myself in and out of her— but I’ve never brought it up, or asked about it.

And maybe that’s my problem with it all— I can’t gauge her willingness to bear permanent marks on her body— I don’t know the motives or decisions she’s made in the past— I’m not sure if they were conscious mistakes or not. But the bruises I make, the red flush of her skin, and the wetness between her legs are all just fleeting moments in the passage of time on the history of her body.