This piece about my darling no longer around.
I have fallen head over heels in love with a tattoo artist. He smells of antiseptic wipes and dross clients, who think alcohol should be a perfume that makes the inappropriate permanent ink drawing on their bodies more acceptable.
He draws on my body with his needles and his colours, and in areas that would be totally inappropriate if I was ever a client of his. The venue is not sterile, given that a thousand times a thousand horny itinerant workers have already used this grotty motel bathroom.
We've finished a bottle of cheap whiskey between us but neither of us are drunk. His hand shakes for totally different reasons. He doesn't finish the tattoo. He knows he can't do the professional job he would like to, due to the shaking. I shake too, and tell him that it hurts too much to finish.
I am lying.
It hurts too much to think that he is going to finish.
I wear the uneven marks of his final tattoo on my body, always.
I cherish every shaky line and I remember every pathogen courting minute spent in that bathroom.
(Inspired by this site. The rules are stated.)