I wouldn’t gain entry without a ticket, that much was clear. And there were no tickets available.
I ordered a Magners drink, remembering from last time that I’d be required to pour it myself.
The barman was well over six feet tall and had created strange, enormous holes in his earlobes by inserting little black plastic circles
in order to push back the skin. For some reason, I was reminded of my shower curtain.
This comforting thought of home gave me the courage to examine his tattoos, which snaked across his neck and down both arms.
The colors were very beautiful, and the images were dense and complex.
How marvelous to be able to read someone’s skin, to explore the story of his life across his chest, his arms, the softness at the back of his neck.
The barman had roses and a treble clef, a cross, a woman’s face... so much detail, so little unadorned flesh.
He saw me looking, smiled. “Got any yourself?” I shook my head, smiled back and hurried off to a table with my drink.
His words resonated in my head. Why didn’t I have any tattoos?
I had never given it a moment’s thought, and I’d never consciously decided either to have or not have one.
The more I thought about it, the more I was drawn to the idea.
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