Tattoo

She remembered the tattoo. Everything else about the incident was unclear, lost in the dustbin of memory. She knew she had the accident, of course, but most of the details were fuzzy. The memory of the sounds of glass shattering and metal bending seemed unreal. The tattoo was real and present in her mind everyday. A red bird perched on a branch.

She looked at the wrist of every stranger she met, hoping to see it again. The first time she saw it was as she was being pulled from the wreckage. The next time she saw it she hoped to see the face of the man who liked red birds.

It took years for her to give up hope of seeing it again. When the nice guy from work asked her out, the tattoo was the last thing on her mind. He was pleasant company and not bad to look at.

Her date spilled his coffee when she screamed.

The waiter with the red bird on his wrist was so startled he dropped her sandwich.

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