​The Hex

The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex on my right arm, and I couldn't move my fingers for hours.

I thought it would be cool to have a hex as a tattoo.

“Don’t you mean a pentagram?” Stephen asked.

“No, I mean a hex.”

Stephen shrugged, “Okay, I’ll paint one to see if you like it.”

We were both drunk and I laughed as he pulled out a brush from his backpack.

“What the...”

“I am an art major,” he told me, “I am always ready to paint hexes on people.”

It all seemed very funny. He swirled his paintbrush in my beer glass to moisten the bristles. Before I could protest, he proceeded to paint shapes on my arm.

With paint dripping down my arm, “How long until it dries?”
“Oh, just a few minutes—don’t move.”

The next morning, I lie in bed and can’t move my arm. Strange hangover feeling, I thought, forgetting what happened. For the first hour, my arm was tingly. I looked down and remembered the night before.

I couldn’t brush my teeth or hold a cup of coffee. I took a shower to scrub the paint off my arm. Slowly, the feeling started to come back into my fingertips.

I dumped my beer glass, watching the paint swirl down the drain. Looking for Stephen’s number on my phone, it disappeared, just like my hex. I never did see Stephen again.