Ribbons by J R Evans Page B

the center of the circle.
    “Fuck . . .”
    F-bombs were pretty rare for Matt. He usually found it more funny or more clever to come up with some other expletive. But this was the second one he had dropped today.
    The marking on the ceiling itself wasn’t that shocking; it was pretty simple, really. The F-bomb had dropped when Matt realize that same symbol was burned into his own wrist.

 
     
     
    10
     
     
    Foster had a habit of mouth-breathing when he was trying to concentrate. The more he focused, the wider his mouth opened. His hand started to shake as he inched it closer to the prostitute’s breast, and his lips parted a little more. She said her name was something like Vicky. Normally he was pretty good at remembering people’s names, but he had been really nervous when they’d first met. His mouth had dropped open almost immediately. He must have looked like a bit of a dork. It hadn’t scared her away, though. Which was a shame. She seemed pretty nice.
    “You’re sure this washes off?” asked the prostitute who was probably Vicky.
    Foster kept his eyes on his hand when he answered. “Oh yeah. They’re for kids. You could eat them if you wanted to.”
    He was straddling Vicky. She was naked, but he was still dressed. His hand held a felt-tip marker, and he was using it to draw a line along her skin. It started at Vicky’s left ankle and then curved, and swirled, and looped, as it made its way up her thigh and over her hip. Then it dipped back down toward her crotch before circling around her labia. From there it traced up her abdomen and spiraled around her belly button. Sometimes the line crossed itself, and Foster drew a more detailed pattern when it did, sometimes it arched in wide, lazy loops like cursive handwriting. It was all one line, though; the pen never left her skin. The Woman in the Garden had him practice several times to make sure he could finish the line without lifting the pen.
    He was just about to start a pretty complex flourish on her right breast. His mouth almost made a perfect O . It was going to be tricky.
    He paused, started, and then stopped abruptly when she said, “Well, they smell tasty. What is that? Strawberries?”
    Foster took a breath. “I thought so, too, but the pen says it’s something called Fluffleberry. I don’t think that’s a real berry, though.” He continued his line.
    “Smells like it should be real,” said Vicky.
    “Mmm. Sorry, this is the hard part.” Foster drew slowly and deliberately. If Vicky was ticklish, she was keeping it under control.
    They were in a cheap motel room. It was nowhere near the Strip, but it did have a faded print of all the casinos lit up at night above the headboard. Most of them, anyway. The pyramid was missing, so it was a bit dated. Still, it was a step up from sleeping on the beanbag chair in the orphanage.
    The garden was no longer bleeding into the orphanage TV room, but the Woman in the Garden still spoke to him. She had finished the storybook for him while he wrapped up his wrist and sucked down a couple of juice boxes. He was pretty sure he was going insane.
    She told the story of how she had given her heart to the first man she’d ever met. How they’d made a life for themselves tending the garden. She made the guy sound like a real tool. The way she described him, he had almost no personality. They hadn’t had a “meet cute” or anything like that. He just kinda shown up and they started farming together.
    Foster had still been a bit fuzzy from the blood loss, but it sounded like this guy had just wandered off into the woods one day and had gotten lost. The next day he’d shown up at the garden with another woman, only this one had a name—Eve. And then he started calling himself Adam. He said they were in love and that God wanted them to be together.
    The Woman in the Garden had gotten pretty pissed off when she’d been telling that part of the story. She’d gone off on this rant about how they had