I don’t remember why I walked down that alley. It’s not the sort of thing I’d normally do - I wasn’t in the greatest part of town and the daylight was fading fast. Walking down dingy alleys in unfamiliar towns while shadows lengthen on the ground is the kind of thing that very annoying teenage girls do in scary movies. Not me. I’m not that type at all. I’m usually more of the “follow the map, get the thing done and get back home by late afternoon” type.

Whatever it was, I found myself that evening drawn down that alley and standing in front of a decidedly shady looking tattoo parlour. It was exactly the kind of place that you just knew was run by questionable types who sell pills from the back room. Not that I’d know from experience. God - I’m so square I’m practically a cube.

The tattoo artist was every bit as rough looking as you’d expect. Old faded jeans. Biker boots. Tight short sleeved t shirt that may or may not have been white when it was new, covered with an undone leather vest.

Tanned and slightly greasy looking.

“Come on in love” he said, and his smile was surprisingly warm.

I hesitated before walking over to look at the walls, and pretending to browse the dozens of designs hanging there.

“You don’t want one of them” he said gently. “Everyone’s got one of them- they’re our cheapie specials. Pre-drawn and bog standard. You don’t look the type to just come in and get a cartoon Cupid”.

Without turning around, I smiled sadly. Actually I probably looked exactly like the type to walk in and get a cartoon Cupid, or anything generic. Calling me bland would be a kindness, and I know it.

“I can give you what you want” his voice came softly from behind me. “You just need to be very, very sure that you want it.”

It should have come across as a sleazy remark, but somehow it sounded completely sincere.

Turning, I tried to make eye contact with him. I think I looked right at him, but for some reason I couldn’t tell you what his face looked like.

“I don’t know what I want” I replied, and my voice surprised me. “I just know that I want it”.

A grin crept into his voice. “I get that a lot”

A chuckle. “Take a seat. You might not know what you need, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out”.

I don’t remember walking over to the tattoo bed. I don’t remember it hurting, although I remember the buzz of the needle. That’s strange, because tattoos are meant to really hurt, right?

All I remember from that moment on is standing outside in the alley again, this time with my back facing the store. Staring at my arm, just on the inside of my left wrist. A tiny symbol. That weird blue-green colour you see on really old tattoos, usually on the kind of guys that look like they’ve seen the inside of a prison or two- and not as guards.

The harder I tried to see it, the more it blurred, but I got the fleeting impression of an eternity symbol.