The dead want us to be happy, that’s why they give us pennies, to remind us.’ She shifted her bag, hefting her great purse onto her shoulder and waddled to her car, leaving me stooping in a parking lot to ponder what she had said. That evening after having a couple of stout shots of whiskey, I came up with an idea. I pulled up to the tattoo parlor and told them about my idea. The artist was a large, burly man with several tattoos of his own. He drew up a sketch and after bearing my shoulder, set about doing his work. The drinks I had earlier might have dulled my sense of reason, but not my sense of pain. My arm felt as if it were on fire, the buzz of the gun was deafening in my ears, but for once, I couldn’t hear her gasps. I almost stopped him in the middle of his work, but I stuck it out, I had to do this. I would be her memorial, the tattoo her monument, the design an outward expression of my inward pain. I inspected his work, the design was intricate, a ring of forget-me-nots. ‘Thought you might like company when you got home lonely boy. Saw you sign off the network. Figured you might be heading home and decided to drop in,’ she said. ‘You did?’ I suppressed my smile. ‘I did, and I brought some wine. Chateaux Margeaux….your favorite, right?’ She held up two bottles. I realized that I maybe tell my seminars a bit too much about myself and my good taste. ‘And how did you buy that?’ ‘With money.’ Her voice had a sarcastic tone. ‘Ok, I have good friends with great ID,’ she said with a huge just don’t dare ask me any more questions smile, ‘and there is something to be said for a good whine.’ She purred then laughed. I opened the door and we walked into my kitchen. I took two wine glasses from a cabinet and handed them to Holly. I found a corkscrew, opened one of the bottles, and pointed back towards the porch . Holly had other ideas of course. ‘Bathroom?’ ‘Just down the hall on the left?’ She was wearing her little black cocktail dress. Perhaps tiny would be.
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