I went to a tattoo parlor. Truth be told, it looked more like a lawyer’s office. By-and-by I was ushered into a small room and presented with a gilt-edged book to peruse. There were dragons and daggers and damsels. Next page, a lion couchant.
Soon a scarlet rose with satiny petals attracted me.
“Have you made a selection, Mr. Thorn?”
“Presently one of our tattooists will be at your disposition.”
She arrived, that faux paralegal, that songstress of the needle. Looks were exchanged as she lovingly etched my dexter bicep–and my heart pounded plentily. Her name was Rose.