He Only Saw My Tattoo

To call the bar a dive would be an insult to dives — yet that’s what I had wanted us to experience. I had wanted seedy, if only to humble him.

And, as I thought about it some more, to humble myself, too.

The room had that unclean feeling that I was accustomed to, but I wasn’t complaining. I had caught the heavy aroma of stale cigarette smoke clinging to the air as soon as I entered the place; it was a pleasant distraction from the curious stares of the unshaven, blue-collar ruffians that called this watering hole an oasis.

I had to adjust my eyes as neon surrounded me, cutting through the gloom. As soon as I narrowed my eyelids, I saw the signs behind the bar; they provided the only light while advertising the beers in the cooler, along with beers from a decidedly older vintage, no longer in production…

The bartender watched my approach, lines of apprehension crossing his face and I smiled while ordering a gin. I peered at the picture next to me and found a layer of grime on its frame and glass. The barstool shifted as I sat down and my legs clenched as I felt that familiar flood of heat in my body pool from the plug within.

I scanned the room for my mark, one who was easily molded, and then I saw him. Blue eyes piercing through the darkness caught my attention. The fine-cut suit came next. This mark didn’t...