When the hissing subsided, I flicked the spent cigarette down the stairs and blew away the residual ash. The black blister on the inside of my forearm was one of many, mostly disguised amongst my tattoos. I needed to remember the pain, not the way his golden hair felt as it slipped through my fingers, tousled and messy at the top and faded down the sides, a less severe version of my haircut.
