Going hurt?

He takes the needle away from the match flame. The blackened tip sizzles when he dips it into the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Not really if I no tink, the boy says.

The flesh between his thumb and pointy finger feels soft. He presses the skin and watches it turn from a creamy white, to pink, then to his normal tan color. He makes a fist and feels the muscle harden. The needle's ready. All he needs to do is to poke himself and rub the ink in.

You just going put our initials right, she asks. Better if smaller. Nicer.

Wind blows off the canal, stinking of something dead. She winces and turns her head away.

He ignores her, instead concentrating on the needle penetrating past skin then deep into muscle. He pinches the needle between his thumb and fingers. Wet alcohol makes it slippery to hold.

Open da ink, he says. Watchoutwatchoutwatchout. Be careful.

She twists the cap off slow and feels the grittiness of dried ink breaking when it turns. She lays the cap down and dried black crust falls on the concrete table.

Look. Dry inside, she says. Oh wait, stillyet get.

She shakes the bottle and tips it to see into the bottom. The boy grips the needle tighter.

Let me see, he says. Get littobit, I wen jack dis from my bradda he use um for tat all his friends.

Oh.

Okay I ready, he says. You?