Perhaps I could have one on my face, something complex and intricate which incorporated my scar, making it a feature?
Or, better still, I could have one done somewhere secret. I liked that idea.
The inside of my thigh, the back of my knee, the sole of my foot, perhaps.
I finished the Magners and the barman came over to remove my glass. “Same again?” he asked.
“No thank you,” I said. “Can I ask you something?” I stopped picking off the remains of the nail polish.
“Two things, actually. One: does it hurt, and two, how much does a tattoo cost?”
He nodded, as if he’d been expecting my questions. “Hurts like fuck, I’m not gonna lie,” he said.
“In terms of cost, it depends on what you’re having done—there’s a big difference between Mum on your bicep
and a massive tiger across your back, you know?” I nodded; this made perfect sense.
“Lot of cowboys around, though,” he said, warming to his theme.
“You want to go to Barry, in Thornton Street, if you’re getting one. Barry’s sound.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. I hadn’t expected this outcome from the evening, but then life has a way of surprising you sometimes.
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