He remembered the debate, remembered it with clarion clarity...how nothing would ever besmirch her skin...nothing could taint it. Not a needle, nor a color.
He didn't argue too vehemently...in his mind her pastels and natural colors were all he needed...but it was the foreign object that was intriguing.
The tattoo was a scar of a time...spent together...yes, maybe without all faculties, but nevertheless a moment in time. A Polaroid. A snapchat. A fixture.
She didn't want it anywhere exposed...she felt it was past her. She wanted privacy, and intimacy. He wanted trophies.
He tried to explain to her in the hundreds of feet of her smooth and delicate skin that a few inches wouldn't make a hell of a difference. It was a tiny fissure. An invasion.
She had protested, and she had declined. In the end, she sat watching him as he put herself on him in permanent ink.
But he possessed just the tiniest of secrets, just the tiniest of shadows that nobody could ever see...and so he smiled at the permanence he perceived that she saw with the colors.
She had invaded him so long ago...she had clung to and possessed parts of him that weren't rightfully hers but that she had clasped and grasped and clutched and now held firmly against her...and he allowed and acquiesced and acknowledged...most of it in the middle, most of it just adjacent to the part where she sometimes laid her head and could hear the distant echo of the thing that she was gradually consuming.
The tattoo was not being inscribed by somebody from the outside...rather, in his mind, it was the simple small gesture that of all the things she possessed of his that there was now a tiny mark on him that showed the outside world just a hint of her spilling out.
And the small inches of it were nowhere in the world comparable to the vast spaces she commanded.
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