in her ears, nose, and navel, and Charlotte was a professed socialist who eschewed status symbols.
Neither of them was the diamond-ring type.
And so they had settled on the armbands. The tattooing had been their commitment ceremony. Charlottehad held Lily’s left hand while the lesbian tattoo artist inked her right arm, and Lily did the same forCharlotte when her turn came. After their artwork was complete, they had kissed.
That night, Lily and Charlotte had enjoyed a night of passionate but awkward lovemaking, as theywallowed in connubial bliss while trying to avoid each other’s bandaged biceps.
The past two weeks, the image of Charlotte’s armband had haunted Lily. When the highway patrolmantold her that Charlotte’s car had been run off a rain-slick road in southern Georgia, Lily’s mind flashed toCharlotte’s tattoo. Charlotte had left the house the morning of the accident wearing a black T-shirt withthe sleeves cut off so she could show off her ink and shock her uptight academic colleagues.
Later, when Charlotte’s body was being cremated, Lily thought again of the tattoo, of the symbol of theirlove, burning away to ashes.
Maybe all couples should get tattoos as a sign of commitment, Lily thought as she yanked on thepantyhose she resented wearing. A wedding ring could be put in a drawer and forgotten after one’s partnerpassed on, but a tattoo was a constant reminder to remember. No matter what happened, Lily wouldalways be marked by Charlotte’s love.
Lily regarded herself in the full-length mirror: her plain black vintage dress with its tattoo-concealingsleeves, her black stockings, and the black Mary Janes with chunky high heels, which were the closestthing to a respectable-looking pair of shoes she owned. She had pulled her white-girl dreadlocks into amessy bun so her hair didn’t look too wild, and she had replaced the silver hoop in her nose with a tinysilver stud. She had considered removing her body jewelry altogether, but she couldn’t bear to. Hermultiple piercings were the only thing that prevented her from looking like someone’s grandmother fromthe Old Country.
Lily walked to the room at the end of the hall, where Mimi was still asleep in her crib. Lily hatedto wake her up to take her to this damned thing. Charlotte’s real funeral had been last week — a small,private service in which Charlotte’s friends had gathered to remember Charlotte the way she really was.
They had told stories and read poems by Adrienne Rich and Audre Lorde to the accompaniment of a