Shostakovitch

He got up out of the water and stepped out of the pool. It was the kind of tattoo meant to be admired and seen in a pool where swimsuits were optional.

All etched in the darkest black and shadowed the entire length across his body were the treble and bass lines of a piano score. It was so intensely dark it almost looked like it had been bruised onto his flesh versus being drawn. The tattoo began on the back of his shaved head, down his neck, following his spine, through the curve of his butt and then curling between his legs and ending in a circular wave around and down his right leg.

It was actually thrilling to watch as he moved. I had, in comparison, an extremely small tattoo on my chest that I’d agonized my way through. I winced a fair amount thinking about how some sections of that must have hurt and itched after being done and healing.

He was equally beautiful and tattooed on the front of his torso, the specifics of the ink were obscured by thick black chest and stomach hair. Brooding eyes and a long dark brown goatee tied in an ornamental braid.

Across from me in the showers, he caught me at a full stop, admiring him.
“Shostakovitch…Preludes and Fugues for Piano in E Minor…is an intriguing choice for a body-length tattoo,” I stammered out, revealing having stared at it long enough to recognize the score.

He didn’t reply with anything but with a gentle, rich smile and a nod. I awkwardly excused myself.

Flustered, I returned to my locker to finish changing. I was getting ready to head home, when he was suddenly towering over me shirtless, wearing a pair of incompletely buttoned blue jeans. The smile still on his face, he looked down at me softly, acknowledging with another nod my tremble and involuntarily swoon as I turned to look up at him.

“Sergei,” he said, in a syrupy-think Russian accent, extending his hand for a handshake.

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