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In Ink

Geoffrey Orens

“The tattoos on my back tell the story of my life,” he said the first night we slept together. “I mean literally, they tell the story of my life.” I traced the outlines of
his childhood bike and
a map of his hometown on his back. “When I die, I want to be skinned and have it hung as a work of art.” He turned his handsome face towards mine. “Does that sound strange to you?” “A little,” I said. I couldn’t argue, I was still in the afterglow of our lovemaking “It’s a way of being remembered,” he said. “Some will read every word and know who I was. Even centuries from now.” And that set me off on a wild, strange hope that we would bond more than just that one night and that my name and our time together would be joined in ink on his back for as long as people could read it. And when we started to see each other regularly, I kept thinking it’s just a matter of time before I would see evidence of our romance added in ink. After all, when we had been together two months, a line was added near the nape of his back. “And at the age of 34 I decided God doesn’t exist.” However, month after month went by, we moved in together, and not a line was added about me. I felt self-conscious about bringing it up, thinking about it. After all, what did it matter anyway? Was I looking for something extra that I wasn’t receiving through all the daily wonders of a young relationship?
One night, worry got the better of me, when we were lying in bed. “Honey, is there any room on you for what we’ve been growing together?” is how it came out. “It’s just a practical matter,” he said without dropping a beat. I wondered if he’d been preparing for this. “I mean I’m 34 and I’ve already used up half of my back.” I only have so much room left. And, well, I don’t know about my front.

I was silent for a bit, my head rested on his chest. “I get it,” I said, “I really do, butÉwell, it’s not as if you have to worry about us being a forever thing. It just shows that it mattered.” He was silent. “You could always add lines later,” I added quickly, “if it doesn’t work out, saying that or whatever.” “I don’t like the pressure,” he said sitting up and shaking his head. “It’s my story and I don’t like the pressure of being told how to write it.” “Okay,” I whispered holding his hand. He kissed me, and slid back down into bed. After he fell asleep, I walked across the wooden, warped bedroom floor and looked out across at the dark row of apartment houses across the street. And waited.

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