Casper has a shelf on the wall above his bed. His room is moldy and cold and grey, the duvet halfway on the floor. Things are stacked haphazardly that I have to step over to make it to the island of his bed. But on the shelf, the items are all carefully centered with just the right amount of space in between. There are three tattoo guns, a clock he bought when he came to visit me in Berlin, and a Matryoshka doll I bought him in Prague.
He’s kept his dolls stacked inward on themselves—the way they are meant to be stored. I have a matching version, but I took all of my dolls out. They are spread across the vast expanse of a bookshelf that greets me when I first walk in the door. When I saw the two dolls in the shop, I thought they suited us both. I still think they do. A stoic black one for him. An unpainted version for me. Both are adorned with flowers and castles burnt into the wood.
“You still have that,” I say, pointing at the doll. I am surprised to see her, pristine on the shelf. If I were Casper, I would have thrown it, and maybe even the clock, out.
Casper sits relaxed and leaned up against the wall, while I nose through his belongings. I am picking the items up and putting them back down a little too loudly. I am trying to get a reaction out of him, but he is contained. I pick up one of the tattoo guns, and he suddenly comes to life.
He leans over towards me and starts picking up tiny levers and telling me whatever it is that makes this particular machine special. That he got it from Dani for cheap. That people don’t make machines like this anymore. It is a trick I have learned about Casper, who doesn’t always have the grandest of emotional responses the way I would like him to. But if I prod him about tattoos, a light will appear behind his blue eyes that wasn’t there before. And if I don’t listen to the words he is really saying, I can pretend that it is excitement for me.
Casper finishes explaining whatever it was about the tattoo gun and carefully takes it from my hands to put it back where it belongs on the shelf. And the machine will go on unused because Casper doesn’t even know how to tattoo.
