“If you’ll give me your hand, please,” he says. “Why?” I drop my eyes to his extended hand and find that even the underside of his arm is filled with color. His tattoos are of things that shouldn’t go together but somehow do—two candy hearts, a pair of scissors, the ghosts from Pac-Man. “Can’t say. It’s for the flirting.” Half of my brain says this is a bad idea. The other half doesn’t particularly care. When he smiles, I decide to go with the latter half and tell the first half to shut it.
