The Tattoo

6:45AM – Hooker with a Heart of Gold is sleeping next to me. We are on his new bed that he bought at least in part to please me. In truth, he probably waited to buy the bed until there was a person like me to manipulate, someone he could convince through massage oil and wicked smiles that the new bed was purchased with someone else’s comfort in mind. Louse. I am wide awake. I am concerned that my car is parked on the wrong side of the street. Street cleaning begins in just over an hour. If I am on the wrong side, this night will have cost me $35.00, and it won’t even go to the hooker. This seems inappropriate at best. I consider changing my position in bed, regaining my left arm, which is currently wrapped tight around HHG’s remarkable midsection in a left facing spoon. He has a death grip on my left hand close to his chest. He breathes deeply and silently. I try to breathe with him. He squeezes my hand a little tighter. I have no feeling in my left hand. I also have no feeling in my right arm which is smashed somewhere between my chest and his back. I gave up looking for it about 15 minutes ago. I hope I am not parked on the wrong side of the street. I hate tickets.

6:48AM – This is ridiculous. I should just move and get comfortable. If I don’t do it soon, I will not have a viable hand with feeling with which to maneuver into another, more comfortable position. HHG continues to breathe slow and deep. I am staring at the back of his head. This new bed was supposed to make it feasible for me to spend the night over here. Instead, what has happened is, HHG has decided that 100% of the sleeping time will be devoted to Siamese Sleeping. It is like we are one body. And since I have no feeling in both arms now, we essentially only have two arms. Odd. I continue to stare at the back of HHG’s head. His new tattoo is slightly alarming. He shaved his head last week and got a giant dragon tattooed on the back of his scalp. It is black and green. It is literally stretched from ear to ear. Our relationship wavers precariously for a moment: when physical attraction is the basis for a relationship, one would be wise to consult the second party before tattooing imaginary creatures on one’s head. I decide to mention this when he wakes up. I have an itch on my forehead and no working arm with which to scratch it. Oh my God. I itch. I itch I itch I itch. I am totally parked on the wrong side of the street, I know it.

7:00AM – I have wrenched free of HHG’s vice grip and managed to turn the other way, legs curled up, blood returning to my arms. HHG shifts around for a second, realizes that I have moved and turns to spoon me from behind. He reaches around my less remarkable midsection in search of my right hand. I play a bit of cat and mouse before he finally finds it and laces his fingers through mine. I glance down to see my knuckles turning a opalesque white. I realize that while it is indeed a great comfort that the mattress is made of memory foam, it would be significantly better if my entire body was Tempurpedic. I imagine myself for a moment remade completely in a bone colored foam that gently depresses when pressure is applied and lightly springs back when pressure is lifted. I have an itch on my left knee now. I will never reach it.

7:45AM – I have either fallen asleep or passed out. When I awaken, HHG has released me from his clutches and is now splayed out on his back, legs wide, arms above his head and wide, a perfect X when seen from above. I am curled tightly in the fetal position on my side of the bed, just to his left. Thank god I’m small like I am. I turn toward HHG and decide that his remarkable midsection is too desirable to be let alone. I take a deep breath, reach my left arm across his body and nuzzle into his neck. His left arm comes down on the top of my head and he leans his head into mine just a bit. Our breath is exactly the same. Inhale. Exhale. He opens his eyes. “How did you sleep?” he asks. I consider for a moment. “Just fine,” I say. “But I’m worried I’m parked on the wrong side.” “You’re perfect just where you are,” he says. “ I meant my car,” I clarify. “That’s fine too,” he says. He turns toward me so that he is on his side, completely engulfing me. My face is mashed into his remarkable midsection. Our breathing has changed. His is still long and deep, mine is thin and through my only working nostril (the right one is mashed against, well, you know). My right arm begins to go numb.

8:45AM – I am pulling on my socks. Very dignified. Shoes from last night. They never seem right in the morning light. HHG is feeding the cat. The tattoo on the back of his head is staring at me. Dragon wings spread open wide, talons, tail, fire breath. In a month or so, when his hair grows back in, I won’t be able to see it. It will be hidden away, under his dark, coarse hair. But it will still be there. Just under the surface. Breathing fire.