The Name on His Skin

My name remained on Darius after I removed his from every practical part of my life.

At the kitchen table, I changed passwords, closed our shared accounts, removed him as my emergency contact, and redirected his mail. Each confirmation arrived with its small, impersonal promise: the change had been made. Those notices brought more relief than blocking his number. Separation had paperwork.

The tattoo remained beyond my jurisdiction.

At first I imagined Corinne seeing it when he undressed. I wanted her eyes to stop at the letters. I wanted him to have to explain my name with his shirt off.

Even in that private revenge, I was asking my name to hold a place for me.

I did not want that place.

Darius could cover the tattoo, pay to have it removed, or let the letters soften with age. He could tell whatever story he liked when someone asked. The name was mine; the skin was his.

He mentioned it during our final call. I was standing at the kitchen window, watching the last light leave the brick wall across the way.

"I still got your name on me," he said.

"That was your decision," I said.

"It means something."

"It meant something when you did it. That doesn't mean I have to stay."

His voice dropped, and I could hear him breathing into the phone. Once, I would have softened mine in answer.

"So I should just cover it?"

"It's your body, Darius. You don't need me to decide."

He said nothing. I kept the phone against my ear.

I waited for him to ask another way.

After the call, I turned my forearm toward the window. The light caught the fine hairs, then faded as I lowered it. There was no mark of him on my skin. For a while, I had resented that he could point to something and I could not.

Now I let my arm rest on the sill.

I had nothing to show anyone. I no longer wished I did.

On the anniversary of his father's death, I picked up the phone to call Darius.

Grief had introduced us. I remembered how his voice changed when he spoke of his father, how he sometimes stopped in the middle of a story and rubbed his mouth. I knew what day it was without consulting the calendar. My thumb rested on the dark screen.

I wanted the day to be easier for him. I also knew he would hear a call as an invitation to call again.

I set the phone facedown and lit a candle for the dead man I had never known. The match flared close to my fingers. I did not call his son.

Beside the phone, the wick bent toward a small pool of wax.