The Pierced Position.
The right rite of passage.
The ad looked sketchy but I called anyway.
David and I had just moved into a new place, in a new city for the newest chapter of our lives: university. Now that we were on our own, finally divorced from the appendages of living with our parents, it was glorious grounds to do exactly what angsty teens who live in the suburbs hope for as they transition into adulthood: whatever we wanted.
I met David in our second year of high school and always admired his down-for-anything attitude. We quickly became friends and trudged through four years at our diet Glee performing arts high school. When the time came to apply to universities, we submitted our applications, got accepted into the same school and decided to move in together.
“We need to celebrate,” I said while unpacking, trying to get adjusted to our new reality. We stopped to think pensively and sat in the lived-in tweed sofa and couch. “Let’s get a piercing!,” I suggested, half wanting to do it and half waiting for David to ask if I was sure, despite knowing that he’d never been known to say no.
“Okay,” he said, and resumed unpacking. Still, I was startled that I had made the suggestion and that he so easily agreed. Perhaps it pointed to something else entirely.
