Dick rubbed the surgical scar that scratched across his chest, straight and true.
Connie kept saying that said he should complete it with a tattoo. “Add some feathers and an arrowhead point,” she said, “like Cupid’s.”
Dick had said, “How do you come up with this shit? Why the hell would I do that?”
Their son Brad had crowed, “Mom, Dad doesn’t get the point!” and the two of them laughed over the stupid pun. Both kids had turned out weird, like her. Weird and weak.
Privately, though, Dick was already considering a tattoo. All the old guys were getting them, using morbid humour to whistle past their fears. Anything to appear in control. Calm, cool and collected, as they used to say in High School. Large and in charge. Chill.
His friend Joe had a tattoo of a zipper, teeth half-open around shiny scar tissue, marking where doctors would slice into his chest to access his pacemaker batteries. Pretty cool. Not as good as the art Dick wanted, of a skeletal hand flipping the bird, but still cool. Of course, thanks to Connie, he never would receive the benefit of having his batteries replaced regularly with fresh, brand new models. He was stuck with these rechargeable ones. For the rest of his life.
Hello, Gang of Glorious Readers, Rhea here.
I am entering stories into contests, some of which do not allow any previous publication or posting of the entries of any kind, even on a blog.
If you would like to read the entire story, send me your email address and I will forward it to you. Also, I could add you to an email list of those who want the whole shebang automatically sent to their inbox. Unfortunately, you will never, ever, be able to unsubscribe from the email list, mwahahaha! Kidding, of course.
Best always, RDG