I had a dream the other night that Henry had a tattoo on his right hand. Outside of my slumber, I can’t seem to remember the details of the ink, but I know it started at his wrist and spilled out onto the top of his hand, a quilt of images with the focal point being a Lugosi-esque Dracula. Suddenly, Henry seemed very hot in my subconscious.
Then I woke up as reality coated my memory like slow-pouring honey from a bear-shaped bottle and remembered that I was dating the same old lame bastard with boring SERVICE tattoos on his biceps. (He is quick to point out that only one is from when he was in the SERVICE; the other two are still lame, though. Mostly because neither are the letters E R I N.)
So I’ve been hounding him about it ever since. I feel that since he wouldn’t concede to the Great Labret-Piercing Demands of 2002, he could at the very least slap his hand under the needle for me.
“It would make you seem so much more hard core!” I reasoned. Then I realized that would imply he is already hard core, so I quickly said it again, erasing the “much more.”
I also pointed out, “And you would look less dad-like at Warped Tour.”
He just laughs, the kind without mirth.
“You could at the very least get my initial on your RING FINGER,” I suggested, not very sweetly. (We’re in the throes of a new campaign around these parts of My House, Pioneer Avenue; it’s called Project Propose or Peace Out 2011. Step One was posting his cell phone number on Facebook and having people text him. You can imagine how effective that was.)
“I’ll think about it,” he mumbled. That means YES!
Today, we were in the car when a biker growled by on a motorcycle.
Henry, feeling emasculated in his Ford Focus, sneered, “Who rides a motorcycle when it’s like, one degree outside?”
I considered this for half a second before answering with complete certainty, “Someone with a hand tattoo.”
He didn’t laugh. Not even the kind devoid of mirth.