I'm new in town. I don't know anyone. It's Friday night, seven-thirty, and the phone rings.

"Do you pierce nipples?"

I've inherited the phone number of a tattoo parlor. I get calls for Capital City Tattoo nearly every day. They closed three months ago, as I now can explain even in my sleep; it's surprising how many people wanting tattoos get up earlier than I do. And I have always told the truth before. But--

"Yes," I say. Hook: the image of his nipple. Sinker: I picture a fine gold chain, nipple to jeans pocket. Nipple like a watch fob. If you've got the time... He has a sweet British accent, and I've always loved a good opening line.

"How late are you open?"

"Ten o'clock."

"Right then. Cheerio."

For fully ten minutes I imagine that he is on his way. And surely, I tell myself while selecting more appropriate attire, a man wishing his nipples pierced won't hold an attempted seduction against me.

It's not until I finish with the mascara that I realize I inherited only a phone number, not an address: my apartment is not now, and never was, a tattoo parlor.

But he's out there somewhere. On a Harley. Tall. Black leather.

My new phone book doesn't list Capital City Tattoo. I call The Illustrated Man, and a woman answers. Where was Capital City? She tells me. Clearly she is accustomed to odd requests.

His hair is dark and curly, shoulder length. He plays guitar, bluesy electric, in a band called Lace. He's looking for me, looking through the dark window of a closed storefront, wondering if he's spoken to a ghost.

I hope I get there first.

Help Spread the Word

Want to foward the information on this page to a friend? Click the Capital City Tattoo, by Sharon Wahl page link now for an easy way to e-mail your friends a link back to this page.

(Please note this link opens in a new window, so please make sure your pop-up blocker is deactivated.)