The Tattoo

We walk out of the restaurant and David lights a cigarette, takes a few quick puffs, and promptly tosses it in the gutter. “Sorry. I just needed a quick smoke.”

I giggle, emboldened by the limoncello. “That’s because I’m standing here next to you!”

He grins. “I think you might be right.”

We approach the subway entrance and I hesitate. The stairs leading down to the station are steep and narrow, and I'm still buzzing from the limoncello. Without missing a beat, he entwines his arm in mine and guides me down the stairs. At his touch, I feel like my insides are melting.

He buys a handful of tokens from the cashier and hands one to me. I’d never been on the subway before, a fact which I point out to him now. He leads me through the turnstile and we stand on the edge of the platform, waiting for the next train.

I remember his penchant for tattoos and ask him if he’d gotten any new ones. He lifts the left cuff of his jeans and shows me a a large tattoo that covers most of the side of his left calf. The tattoo depicts a jester with the words “Only the Strong Survive” written in gothic script underneath. “Did you ever see this one?”

“No,” I answer. “It’s awesome, man.”

He stares at me for a moment. “Do you remember what was there before?”

It hits me. Years ago, David had tattooed my name in that very spot on his leg. “Look at this, kitten,” he had said. “This means that I’m yours forever.” I had put on a show of great displeasure, telling him that tattooing my name anywhere on his body was the kiss of death for our relationship. Secretly, though, I had been deeply flattered.

Now I look up at him and smile. “Yeah, I remember.”

His expression is blank. “I had it covered up when you told me you were getting married.”

Ah, yes. I remember that phone call. I hadn’t wanted to make a huge deal of it to him, because I feared it would be awkward and I didn’t want to appear to be rubbing it in his face. So I had tried to casually work it into one of our normal conversations.

“So, ah, something happened last week that I thought, uh, I should tell you,” I’d stammered into the phone, attempting to keep my voice as even as possible.

“What happened?” David had replied, concern creeping into his voice. “Is everything okay, kitten?”

I blurted, “I’m engaged. R. asked me to marry him...and I said yes.”

Silence.

“Hello?” I said, miserable.

More silence.

Finally, his anguished voice crackled in my ear. “But you can’t get married to him! I love you!”

My turn for silence.

“I’m sorry,” I finally responded, wondering why I was apologizing. “I was hoping you’d understand.”

David had quickly made up an excuse to end the phone call right after that. I was left sitting at my desk at work, the telephone receiver still dangling in my left hand. Why he was so upset? It had been over a year since we’d broken up, and he was already living with another girl.

"...and this one I got the day after September eleventh," he tells me now. I snap out of my recollection and focus on what he is saying. He lifts his t-shirt and shows me a vivid American flag tattoo on his left pectoral. I pretend to examine it more closely, pressing my hand over his chest and tracing the outline of the tattoo with my fingertips, but I really just want an excuse to touch his bare chest.

"Nice," I remark, unable to meet his gaze. If I look up at him now, he might lean over and kiss me. I am still trying valiantly to play the virtuous married woman, so I avoid meeting his eyes. The tension is killing me, though. I gently lower his t-shirt as the subway train pulls into the station.