My nails were dry and my manicurist was massaging my hands and arms with warmed cream. (I contend that this is worth the price of admission.) As she kneaded my forearms, her thumbs came across the tattoo on the inside of my right wrist.
She paused and looked to me. "Is this your name?"
She is a lovely Vietnamese woman, she will perpetually look 19 years old, she is fluent in broken phrases, and her accent is contagious. After an hour with her, I think in her voice all day long.
"Oh, no, no, that's not my name."
"It says 'betrothed.' It means, 'promised to marry.'"
She smiled, clearly unsure of what I meant.
Her thumbs gently massaged the letters.
"It your name," she said.
Yes, actually, I thought. In a very real way, you are right. It is my name.