Three Sentence Ficathon

"Excuse you, I have five tattoos," Marinette says with exaggerated primness, whipping off her blazer to show them off: on one shoulder, a yin-yang in red resin and uninked instead of white and black, and on the other, two mandarin orange halves and a baguette with an orange-sized globe, on which the Black and Adriatic Seas are weirdly tiny next to the proportionately sized Mediterranean and Aegean. She tugs her collar down to show off the third tattoo, the A&W Root Beer logo but in wintergreen and plum blossom pink, framed by buttercups and bluebells, with the W reversed and a heart replacing the ampersand; she has to strip down a little to uncover the fourth one (Marinette explains, rolling down one thigh-high and flipping up her skirt), on which the hiragana guiding pronunciation make clear the 知己 written in black over the polka-dot red tiki torch is not hanzi reading zhījǐ but kanji reading chiki, though the idea of a friend who knows you that deeply comes across in either language, and why are there hiragana for ta, te, and to but not ti or tu, anyway?

"These must all have meant something to me before," Marinette muses, examining the black kitten on her forearm (his bitty claws out to disembowel a ball of yarn as green as his eyes) that prompted this conversation, and across the room, the tall blond cute guy whose attention she's been trying to get for six weeks turns away.