The whole situation was wrong. Terribly wrong. Had any other woman shed her top in front of him, it would have been different. Had any other woman left her back exposed, it would have been different. Had any other woman muttered guilty nothings about a tattoo, it would have been different. But this ... Whatever it was, it was a sick, twisted joke. It had to be a joke. If it weren't a joke, why was he here, here, with her before him, marred back. Cursed back. Damned back. It was not right, it was not right.
This was not what he wanted. This is not how he imagined it. Boyhood dreams of the pretty girl with the yellow hair and brown eyes had been morphed into a nightmare, scarred and red. Surely he couldn't ... Surely ... It was not right, it was not right.
He had her permission, even. As his fingertips grazed her back, drinking in her secrets, he felt his fingers monsters, dragons, that left clawed prints in its path. Then, later, after his monster's feet trod the same path for several sunsets, they breathed fire on the symbols that marked the pathway. It was not right, it was not right.
He thought, years later, under different circumstances, it would have been better. Maybe that would have fallen into love. But now, after dragon's burned forests, all they had fallen into was a mess. And, he decided after a heartbeat, they had not even fallen at all. They'd shuffled, then strolled, then stumbled, and then were plunged. It was not right, it was not right.