“Oh, I am. Just like you’re judging me.” She sounded tough, but her eyes were smiling. “People do it all the time, and if they say that they don’t, then they’re judgingandlying.”
“Wow, that’s blunt.” A part of Lee’s brain told him he should be offended, but he wasn’t. Instead, he felt intrigued.
“It’s the truth. It’s natural to evaluate. We do it constantly. Without even thinking,” she said without apology. “You meet a person, and you take in what you observe about them and what you know about the world, and you try to categorize them. Friend or foe? Threat or asset? Peer, superior, or inferior?”
Lee made a left from North College onto Johnston Street. “That’s a pretty harsh view of the world.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Well, sometimes the world can be pretty harsh.”
He knew what she said was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. “I kind of think we’re responsible for making our own world.”
“Well, naturally, I agree with you there,” she said, her voice smoothing out.
“Naturally?” he questioned.
Wren shifted the bottom of her skirt so that her left calf was visible. A brown-and-black-striped feather spanned the length of it. The feather seemed to be falling, twirling downward. The shading and detail were extraordinary.
“As a tattoo artist, I absolutely agree.”
Mesmerized, Lee glanced back and forth between the traffic on the road and the artwork on her leg. He wasn’t sure, but he guessed it was a wren’s feather.
“You did that yourself?” Surprise was clear in his voice. Wren smiled.
“It’s never a good idea to ink yourself, but I did draw the design.”
“That’s really good.” It would be inappropriate for him to mention that the cherry blossom tree on her stomach was a masterpiece, but that didn’t stop him from thinking it. It also didn’t stop him from blabbing on. “I don’t have any tattoos.”
Wren said nothing, but her look of mock surprise made him laugh. “There you go again,” he said, shaking his head. “Judging me.”
Her expression softened. “No judgment. Ink isn’t for everyone.”
Lee wished then he had a tattoo. It would have made her rethink her assumptions. He took a left onto St. Julien Street.
“I’ve heard they’re addicting. That once you get one, you want to keep doing it.”
“I’ll say,” she muttered, tracing her fingers over the blackbirds on her wrist. Then she sat up higher and pointed. “Turn left here.”
Lee made a left onto St. Michael and drove slowly.
“Take the next right,” she said, pointing to St. Vincent. “I’m in the duplex halfway down.” Wren dug through her purse and found her keys as he pulled into the driveway of the two-story house.
“Upstairs or down,” he asked, looking at the steep stairway that led to the second floor.
“Up.”
“And no one’s home?” Lee asked, frowning.
“Uh, just a pissed-off cat named Agnes.”
He didn’t mean to, but he laughed. “Why is she pissed?”
“Well, duh, because no one was here last night or this morning to feed her,” Wren said. “She probably shat on my bed just to make her disapproval clear.”
“Oh, God. You’re kidding.”
One side of Wren’s mouth lifted. “It’s happened, but it’s been a while.”
“Well, I really hope she hasn’t,” Lee said, killing the ignition.