It is late, beyond midnight. I have consumed the Rioja and moved onto Stoli, neat from the freezer. I realise I have been here before – putting words to a page while time gets late, and the lack of wine issue is solved with a syrupy spirit.
I wonder if I could write without alcohol, and the answer is obvious. Write drunk, edit sober – as the adage goes. Or in my case, just post the fucking thing immediately.
[Please feel free to massage me with speeling corrections, grammar what is poor or miswording]
My dragon tattoo takes three hours. It does not hurt as much as you would think. You can switch off the pain, pushed back of your mind until it becomes little more than an irritant, a constant scratching; over and over and over and over …
We engage in a one-way conversation as she draws indelible patterns upon my skin. She talks a lot at first – about her career as a tattooist, her inspiration, travel, ex-boyfriends, miscarriages, income tax, husbands, kids, affairs, ex-husbands, intimate piercings. I feel I know her better than some of her discarded partners.
The second hour is less chatty, the third spent in silence, save for the buzz. It becomes monotonous, the repetitive arc of the needle plunging into my skin, colouring me with this moment forever. She is getting tired; and bored. I don’t blame her, so am I.
Still, at least it is an escape from regular life – pushed to the back of my mind until it becomes little more than an irritant, a constant scratching; over and over and over and over …
Sometimes I wonder why you stay with me, it is not like I am worthy of your effort.
Then I realise, were you to leave me I would have to find someone else to disappoint, and that sounds like a fuck-load of effort – so I try a bit harder for us.
I know, I am good like that. You are such a lucky girl.