Erica by Heather Merrick
She’s with the stepdad. He’s maybe not official yet, but close enough. She doesn’t recognise me, and he doesn’t know.
She sits on the stool next to mine. They can’t sit on your lap anymore. I ask what she wants.
She’s more interested in the ink visible at the end of my sleeve, seeing familiarity in the swirls.
“What does it say?”
“’Erica.’”
“That’s my name.”
Yes it is.
“That’s because you’re on the nice list.”
The stepdad says Santa isn’t meant to have tattoos. Santa isn’t meant to have done any of this, mate. And you’re not meant to have Erica.