Tiger Line

She was over on the other side of the bar, sitting on one of the old couches with her friend. Tatted up, short jean shorts, small white T, hair just a little dirty maybe, skin shining just a little bit, and we hit eyes a few times. Sometimes I can't tell but this time I could, our eyes definitely locked, and they definitely locked when the two of them walked past us to get more drinks.

"She's a cutie," said Nate. Nate was a good wingman, he'd do a good job.

"OK, this is what we're gonna do," and I told him my plan. It was just a line, but an interesting one, one that had to get the conversation flowing.

Her friend and she walked back through the crowd, beers in hand.

"Excuse me," I said, "can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." Bingo. Cute. Nice.

"Is it OK to get a tattoo of a farting tiger?"

"What?"

"Because I have a friend who just got one. I like it, but this guy here doesn't get why anyone would ever do something like that."

"Why'd your friend get it?"

"Well," I said, "I asked him that and he told me he feels in control a lot, but that things always escape him somehow." I glanced at Nate. This was his contribution. Clever guy to think of a detail like that. "So what do you think?"

"Well, I have a tattoo of a pile of shit, so." Nate and I laughed. She then very calmly pointed to her right thigh, where our laughs were stopped by a smiling coil of poop.

"Oh my god," Nate said, "you weren't kidding."

"Why would I kid about something like that?" She looked at us a little too seriously.

"So," I said, "which side of the argument do you land on? I'm going to guess pro."

"I think you should do whatever you want." And with that she and her friend went back to their somehow still vacant couch. Her tattoos shone just a little under the bar's dim bulbs.

"Well," Nate said, "what now?" He had finished his beer, I had gotten what I deserved I suppose.