Dose 1

In blue plastic trays, the small vials of salvation arrives in a push cart like flight attendants trying to interest you with snacks or popcorns or a drink. The blue trays — the kinds that stored pens, each a singular point, rattled in the hot air as they advance down the line. Coffee or tea? Coffee or tea? Gentle as vacuum packed voices sounded. 

A thousand latex gloves lay disposed after each person, I suppose we are all allergic to the shoulders of others. And finally the tattoo artist arrives before us. They snap on yet another pair, shedding and wearing new skin. Then, cool alcohol on the landing site. Then, carefully aiming at the canvas with the pen poised to make the first mark. The dart lands. I tried not to look, regretting the flinch and moment of weakness. I had said that I was “just okay” with needles. 

There is something privileged to have felt nothing from the jab other than the pain of breaking skin. No rush of relief, no gratitude that we now no longer have to fear for our lives. So the push cart goes on in circles, endlessly through the day, diligent, careless, trivial.