sparrow

He wasn’t into tattoos. He thought most of them seemed slutty, and not in a good way. But she had a peacock on her left shoulder, that bled down her arm, a bit, sort of faded, purposefully, he guessed, but colorful, and pretty damn sexy. Most importantly, she wore it well. Problem was, now, at this moment, that he wasn’t into tattoo talk. What was he supposed to say? “Nice ink?” “Sweet tat?” And he knew his first line, with her, especially, was critical. He thought for a moment, then for another, then said, to her, “You have very nice taste.” She smiled, said, ‘Thanks,” and blushed, just a bit, but enough for him to know that it was all good. Her name was Virginia; close friends called her Sparrow. She was 32 and single. She slept with him, that night. On her terms, which was fine with him. And: the peacock looked even better in the morning.