When Jenna let on that a big change was coming, Brada Randy, in classic fashion, did it in style. 

The drive to New York accelerated with banter, tongues cracked like whips against slick lips. I was at the helm, trying my best to appease with an appropriate soundtrack. We began with punk but CSS was the final straw, Brazilian techno pop beating in our hearts as we entered Manhattan Island.

We parked directly outside my dorm on 114th St., and rode the waysub to Astor Place. Jenna, being a feminist, was very particular about the attitude of the tattoo artist. A tone of condescension was never appreciated, though I urged her to consider the fact that this was a tattoo parlor, not Planned Parenthood. Dicks are often the norm.

Given the ultimatum of a 6 hr wait, I suggested Yaffa Cafe on St. Marks. I was taken there on a date by a dashing Ukranian NYPD Officer, Yuriy, who bought me wine and cake, which were delicious, and then whisked me uptown where he serenaded me with Russian folk songs. On this particular day in January however, Brada Randy shared brunch and speculation on whether our waitress was gay…

Check paid, pit stopped, we walked across the street into “Tattoo and Cappuccino” or something to that effect, where a beautiful woman etched a tree into Jenna’s skin. The branches bled without a sound.

As dusk settled on Morningside heights, we sped home, forever changed.