Roulette
He's in a band; We're all in bands these days.
And I've become his biggest groupie. It even says so on my T-shirt in a font made out of daisies: G-R-O-U-P-I-E.
But it's hard to feel shame when I look at him up on the stage.
He's all trilby hat, skinny jeans and checked short-sleeved shirt on bass guitar.
And where the sleeves end? There's an explosion of colour spanning the length of both arms—sleeves he can't take off. Sleeves I wouldn't want him to take off. As for the rest…
I don't have any tattoos or piercings myself, bar my ears, which it took me to the age of twenty to have done. I'm a gun and needle wimp. But I'm fascinated by them, by his in particular. They seem to match his energy.
As he strums away, making his crazy on stage faces, I wonder if there's any more ink currently out of sight.; I see at least one intriguing red shape on his finger as he grip his instrument.
I wonder if I'll find out—tonight. When he meets me after the gig.
They finish their set, Taking Arizona they're called.
We talk and drink round a small table, a few of us- the band and plus ones, watching the other acts. Well, I'm still mostly watching him, noticing new details, like the holes in his brow where a piercing used to be…
Soon it's only me and him left. And it's late.
He leads me through the now quiet city streets, stopping to kiss in dark corners, my ears still ringing from the loud music, 'til we keep our hands off one another long enough to call a taxi. To his. Where I can see him in all his colourful splendour again.
And touch him.
We're close enough now—and alone enough, for me to feel the smooth skin, slightly raised in places, that makes up his personal art. I'm feeling with my fingers, but I look forward to using my tongue.
Over his toned biceps and triceps, in the sea of red, yellows and greens, I can make out a face, maybe some stars, some ribs—or wings?
I want to ask him what it all means; he's told me he designed some himself. Hell, I want to run out and get a tattoo, just to have that bond with him.
But there are other ways to bond, I remember as he finds the zipper at the back of my pleather skirt.
Finally, I get to unveil the rest of the canvas—will it be blank or are there more stories to be told under there?
I undo two buttons… nothing but a bit of chest rug. Four…Nothing again.
With the shirt in two bits, there's still nothing- except muscle and man smell.
But when I push it aside a little…a small, blue cartoon-ish figure…a dolphin?
I look up at him, expectantly.
"Tattoo roulette," he says, in explanation.
Except, it's not an explanation.
I tilt my head in a gesture that shows I require more info.
"It's a game we play with the band. I lost. The loser has to get a lame tattoo. For a laugh " He laughs as if in demonstration.
In that moment, touching that joke tattoo and shaking my head, I begin to like him that bit more, this beautiful, creative man that's also fun.
I fear I might be playing roulette with my heart.