"Would I laugh?" she asks, which is probably a terrible question to ask, because she might laugh, but not at the tattoos. She really does like them, she likes that they're important to him instead of just random shit he's had tattooed on his body like both of hers. The one on her hip reminds her of her mom, but it's not like the symbols themselves mean anything to her. It's not like meaning is a requirement to get a tattoo, but she's sort of made herself a promise, that anything she gets from here on out has to mean something. "Come on, you know I like them." They're not the first thing she noticed about him -- that would have been the way he'd encouraged her enveloped related rage at the station -- but they're pretty close to the top of the list.

"The place where I got the one on my hip had like, four options," she tells him, rolling her eyes at herself. "My mom and I had been on our way to St. Louis Galleria and I convinced her to turn into some stupid hotel instead. It was supposed to be like, a weekend away for the two of us and I just totally ruined it by being a complete dick, so my mom transitioned into T, the teenaged alter, and nearly got the word slut tattooed on her hip in huge letters." And it would have been Kate's fault. "It was this totally seedy place and it was like, 'slut', a playboy bunny, a shamrock or some random symbols. Totally stupid that I don't even know what they mean, right? It probably just says slut in another language." But it still reminds Kate of her mom and that's pretty much what counts.