Fading Ink, Rising Tides

In the spring of my fifth year post-divorce.

I ran into Julian Vance again at a tattoo parlor.

He was there to touch up his lover’s name on his chest.

I was there to cover up the old scars on my wrist.

After years apart, we looked at each other in utter silence.

Just as the heavy quiet was about to break and Julian opened his mouth to speak, a pair of small hands grabbed the hem of his shirt.

"Daddy," the little boy said, looking up at me with wide, curious eyes. "Who is she?"