Megan, my half-sized housemate, presses her baby blue Princess Elsa stamp on the back of my hand. She nods when I tell her it’s pretty.
Her mother finds us in the shared living room. From a grocery bag, her she digs out a lock of braided hair - a thousand shades lighter than hers. “Why the hell is he keeping this?” she asks of my landlord. I know better than to defend him.
Megan eyes her mother, then scoots closer to me. She stamps below the original, then completes a triangle. She blots each of my knuckles.
Alongside the braid, her mother finds a plus sized swimsuit. She holds it open to show how two of her could fit. “Is he hoping she’ll come back for this?” she asks, but answers herself in Spanish. She uses words I only guess at, but Megan heard them all before.
Swarmed over my wrist, the Elsas spread to my forearm, claiming open territory. I tell Megan it’s pretty, and she nods.
Her mother rubs beneath her eye, baiting tears. “Is he talking to her?” she asks.
Megan maps crowded constellations from elbow to shoulder cap. Her stamp suspended, she searches for new placement.
I tug at my shirt and pat my chest. “Here.”
