Her eyes were drawn to the Rhyn tattoo snaking around her neck like a collar.
My friend Ziggy's a tattoo artist in San Francisco.
She looked at the tattoo on her neck and slathered lotion on it, wishing it were paint.
She scratched at the tattoo winding around her neck, furious with him.
Upon the surface is coloring; red for the Bushman, with black whisker though female; white for the European type, with black tattoo patterns.
Something tickled her neck, and she looked down to see the first of the letters of her tattoo flutter to the ground.
While Gabriel was written at the center of the geometric designs on Deidre's shoulders, the tattoo on the woman before her bore the name Rhyn.
She made out the shape of the bottom of a tattoo on his bicep, what looked like a half-sun.
I waited tens of thousands of years for one of us to have the mating tattoo appear.
The tattoo hadn't faded either, just like her memory of the sweet man who made love to her.