"Not sorry," she answers, propping herself up on her hand again, because she's tired, sure, but she's also fascinated by the tattoos and the stories behind them. He has his eyes closed, but he still points out the tattoo and she can see it pretty well in the half light of the bedroom, her eyes adjusted to the dark again. Besides, she's seen it before, it's the first one she looked at that day in the train station, the first one of his tattoos she put her hands on -- without asking, which is pretty much normal for her -- and she knows it pretty well by now.

"What about this one?" she asks, pointing to the tattoo further up his arm. She likes hearing the stories, partly because she knows she'll never have to deal with anything quite so terrifying and partly because she just likes tattoo stories. The one on her arm doesn't have much of one, but there's the one on her hip -- the one he hasn't seen yet -- that has a story to go along with it. And even so, she's pretty sure her story doesn't compare to any of his, given that she only got the tattoo because her mother turned into a teenaged girl and almost got the word slut tattooed on her body in huge letters. The tattoo on her hip is the compromise. A pay off for her silence about the whole incident.