It's nearing 3AM.

I reach for my bra, draped over the center console in my front seat. The man next to me is raising his hips in order to slide his jeans on. My backseat is spacious, but when you're 6'8", you're going to be cramped no matter where you are.

I pull my shirt over my head, the fabric stretching and pulling, I love the feel of it sliding over my skin.

A quiet "Whoa," comes from my partner.

I glance over, shirt in my lap as I untangle my bra. "Hm?"

"Your tattoo," he's staring at the eight black blocks dancing up my side, "What's it say? Visc..?"

"'Visceris'. You can't see all of it, it stops down here." I gesture about three inches below the top of my pants, then wrap my bra around my body, clasps closing. I spin it frontways, slide my arms through the straps.

"What's it mean?" For once, the question doesn't irritate me.

"The first part of the word means the flesh, the guts, the entrails. It's the innermost part or heart of anything," I tug my shirt back over my head, "The second part of the word is possessive, meaning belonging to."

"That's really cool. Most people don't have that much thought and meaning behind their tattoos."

"Yeah, I know."