“Let me see it – please?” Bonnie pleaded.
Finn felt suddenly shy and stupid, questioning the design he’d instructed the tattoo artist to ink across his chest. It had taken hours, and he’d wanted to go alone. He’d been pleased with the results. But it had been more emotional than he’d anticipated, and the emotion was still tightening his gut and making him feel raw and jittery.
“I thought about having it removed – but that didn’t seem right either.” Finn shrugged. “I like the idea of starting over. I like the idea of changing.”
Finn felt suddenly shy and stupid, questioning the design he’d instructed the tattoo artist to ink across his chest. It had taken hours, and he’d wanted to go alone. He’d been pleased with the results. But it had been more emotional than he’d anticipated, and the emotion was still tightening his gut and making him feel raw and jittery.
“I thought about having it removed – but that didn’t seem right either.” Finn shrugged. “I like the idea of starting over. I like the idea of changing.”
“Yeah. Me too,” Bonnie whispered, and she leaned in to kiss his neck, making him lose his train of thought in the sweep of fragrant dark hair that brushed his cheek. She’d started growing it out, and it hung in a straight, swinging line around her jaw – the jawline she’d discovered looked a little too much like her brother Hank’s for her comfort. She said she wasn’t going blonde again, but she was going to keep growing her hair until it was as long as Finn’s. He still had her beat.
“Are you going to show me?” Bonnie said, pulling away enough to meet his eyes.
He grabbed the edges of his T-shirt and pulled it up over his shoulders and off his head so she could see the swirling numbers across his chest that curled and twisted around the double eights and the ugly black swastika, completely obscuring them. He thought he would never be free of them. And he wouldn’t be. Not entirely. No one would be able to see them anymore. They were camouflaged and changed by the numbers and the brush of red that twisted like a ribbon through the equation he’d had inked over his heart. No one would know the story of why Finn, in desperation, had clung to the only safety the prison walls could afford him. No one would know how he’d wept in shame. And no one would know how he’d survived and come out on the other side. And that’s why he didn’t remove it. He needed to remember. But he didn’t want to promote ugliness or hate. So he covered it, he changed it. He transformed it into something hopeful.
“What does it mean?” Bonnie asked, fingering the numbers gently.
“It’s a proof in transcendence.” Finn replied, and shrugged because he knew he was a nerd.
“Transcendence?”
“I could explain what it means in math – but I’d rather explain what it means in life.”
“And what does it mean in life?” Bonnie said, a smile playing about her lips. When she looked at him like that, her eyes heavy with emotion, love apparent in the way her eyes drank him in, he believed in transcendence, in all its wonder.
“It means surpassing our usual limits,” Finn said seriously.
Her smile grew wider and her eyes grew bright, but he continued.
“It means ‘beyond comprehension.’” Finn felt a lump form in his throat as Bonnie leaned forward once more and brushed her lips across his.
“It’s beautiful, Finn. You are beautiful.”
She sighed against his mouth and for several moments their kiss communicated the things that were more easily expressed in action than in word.
“And Finn?” she whispered
“Hmm?”
“You’ve always been beyond comprehension.”
“Are you going to show me?” Bonnie said, pulling away enough to meet his eyes.
He grabbed the edges of his T-shirt and pulled it up over his shoulders and off his head so she could see the swirling numbers across his chest that curled and twisted around the double eights and the ugly black swastika, completely obscuring them. He thought he would never be free of them. And he wouldn’t be. Not entirely. No one would be able to see them anymore. They were camouflaged and changed by the numbers and the brush of red that twisted like a ribbon through the equation he’d had inked over his heart. No one would know the story of why Finn, in desperation, had clung to the only safety the prison walls could afford him. No one would know how he’d wept in shame. And no one would know how he’d survived and come out on the other side. And that’s why he didn’t remove it. He needed to remember. But he didn’t want to promote ugliness or hate. So he covered it, he changed it. He transformed it into something hopeful.
“What does it mean?” Bonnie asked, fingering the numbers gently.
“It’s a proof in transcendence.” Finn replied, and shrugged because he knew he was a nerd.
“Transcendence?”
“I could explain what it means in math – but I’d rather explain what it means in life.”
“And what does it mean in life?” Bonnie said, a smile playing about her lips. When she looked at him like that, her eyes heavy with emotion, love apparent in the way her eyes drank him in, he believed in transcendence, in all its wonder.
“It means surpassing our usual limits,” Finn said seriously.
Her smile grew wider and her eyes grew bright, but he continued.
“It means ‘beyond comprehension.’” Finn felt a lump form in his throat as Bonnie leaned forward once more and brushed her lips across his.
“It’s beautiful, Finn. You are beautiful.”
She sighed against his mouth and for several moments their kiss communicated the things that were more easily expressed in action than in word.
“And Finn?” she whispered
“Hmm?”
“You’ve always been beyond comprehension.”
