The key, the key, a month, a month. Some white-trash tattoo parlor. He had probably been underage and she had probably been his consenting adult. I wondered how she covered her breasts while the needle hit her, whether she and Jake had locked eyes or if he’d turned politely away. A series of men touching it on her and asking, What’s this about? She would say, It’s nothing. And a series of women all over his body, ending with my idiotic face, asking, Why a key? Never an answer, never a clue.