348/365 08/05/2026

On drunken impulse, Agnes dragged Hyacinth into a late-night tattoo parlor—though it should be said here and now the tattoo parlor was just open late on weekends for just such occasions and did not, in fact, regard itself as specifically late-night with all the seedy connotations and knowing winks such a label would encourage. Hyacinth, who could always hold her liquor better, decided on a small caterpillar on her left ankle, a kind of metamorphosis-in-waiting for the butterfly on her right. Agnes, leader of the charge, and barely presenting sober enough for the tattoo artist to legally do her job, requested something resembling a street sign on her right shoulder blade: Man-buns need not apply.