Randall still remembers the first conversation the two of you had. He was out late, for reasons he still can’t remember, on his way back to the apartment building when he saw you there, outside the gate, in the middle of the night, in a tank top and pajama pants, smoking and staring up at the sky.
You were both unnerved by the others presence when you’d both been expecting to be alone. It was you that made the first move though, getting Randall’s attention, and then offering a cigarette.
He hadn’t wanted to accept. Wanted to go inside where it was warm, and where he could just go to bed. But instead he accepted, let you place the stick between his lips, and watched as you lit it with shaking hands.
It was enough movement to give him a close up view of your tattoo. Nothing big, or flashy, a small little distraction from the rest of the torn scared flesh. You felt his eyes on it, and still unused to having ink at all, assumed he was curious.
“It’s something I’d done since I was a little kid. I try not to do it anymore….It’s not important.”
Randall watches you, cheeks flush in embarrassment at having been caught staring,but you don’t seem to mind. He watches you blow smoke up into the atmosphere, and sigh. The smoke and the fog from your breathe in the cold night air mingling as one.
“It was nice meeting you…” He never gave his name, and you didn’t give yours. “See you around.”
His eyes stay trained on you as you turn to enter the building. You hug yourself, rubbing your chilled limbs in an attempt to feel warmer already. He notices then just how many scars you have. Like him it’s not just something that takes up one wrist, no you have both, and your arms, your shoulder, and even more scars that dip into the skin hidden by the fabric of your tank top.
He wonders how much of your body is covered in scars.
The thought makes him flush again, and choke on smoke.