The tattoo, he hadn’t noticed before: it had been cooler, then.  Today was finally warm enough to forego a sweater, and her shirt — white, with a button-down collar, from the boys’ department — was open enough that he could glimpse the ink along her collarbone.  Some of it, anyway.

“What is that?” he wanted to know.

“The Loch Ness monster,” she said, and opened another button so she could pull the cloth aside, give him a proper view.

“In color,” he said, “I had no idea.”

They chatted about the things that mattered to each of them, noting silently along the way the things that mattered to them both.  They tried and failed to steer clear of politics, but it was no matter: it simply wound them both up, in the same direction, and soon they realized they were going to have to agree to agree.  Their server hovered: it was closing time.

He paid the bill and they walked outside to hail a cab.  They kissed while they waited.  The light changed and he put out his arm.  She pushed it down.

“No,” she said.  “Wait.”  He watched her face, waiting for her to say more.  She seemed to be debating something with herself; he bided his time and said nothing, thinking about where his car was parked illegally and whether it had been ticketed.

“Ok,” she said simply, kissing him again and then turning to hail the taxi.  He opened the door, she stepped in and pulled him in after.  He forgot all about his car, no longer caring how many tickets it might collect between now and the moment he returned for it.

She went to the kitchen for clean glasses and a bottle of wine.  He walked around, looking first at the titles on her shelves and then more generally at the furniture, the décor.  There weren’t many things; it was evident that she purchased selectively, and usually cheaply: the pieces were of high quality, many of them — like the small area rugs — worn and needing repair, but still beautiful in their way.  The place suited her, was a reflection of her.

She handed him the bottle and he poured the wine while they continued the conversation begun in the taxi, between kisses.  Midway through their second glass he opened his mouth to ask her something, looking in her eyes, wanting to dive in to the blue.  She shook her head and put her finger over her lips: no more talking, and she took his hand and led him to her bedroom.  He smiled, kissed her, then retraced his steps and returned to the bedroom with the glasses and the bottle.  She smiled and kissed him again.  He reached for the buttons on her shirt but she pushed him away, pushed him down onto the bed, and removed shirt and bra herself. Slowly, almost painfully, making him watch every flick of her wrist and turn of her head before she turned her attention to him, executing much the same maneuvers to unbutton his shirt.  He shrugged it off his shoulders, pulled her to him for the deepest kiss yet.

His hands explored her back, her shoulders, her neck; her breasts pressed against him, full and soft: later, he told himself, and knew he would still be content if “later” never arrived.  His fingers sought out the spot where Nessie lived, high on her collarbone and extending towards her neck.  He closed his eyes and imagined he could trace the ink beneath the surface: here black, here blue, here yellow.  He noticed she had others: an intricate design around her upper arm,  older, the India ink faded to that characteristic green.  This too he traced, trying to commit every millimeter to sense memory.

The ink, he found, forced him to concentrate: it was glorious, a double-exploration. While his eyes took in her beauty, his fingers roamed the lines and designs that supplemented it.  A rose, a serpent, an angel, a trumpet. A small anchor adorned her hip and he had to smile, kissing it on his way to her center.

He took her in his mouth, exploring every detail; he reveled in her scent, her taste, in the sounds she made and in the soft, wet feel of her. Afterwards, he resolved to spend an hour with each tattoo, and to extract from her the story behind it.