It was a warm day. I looked up from my laptop screen to a tattoo. A barely legible one from where I was sitting and from where she was standing. Her back to me, picking up her drink. Something drew me to her. I squinted at the darn thing. Too far to read. It was too quick of an encounter for me to react.

You snooze; you lose.

The five-word, very-small-font sentence danced between her left butt cheek and the top of her extended leg. To frame it all, an obscenely short pair of shorts accentuated her God-given gifts. I couldn’t help but stare. Embarrassingly stare. To no avail. What was tattooed on that thigh?

I recently got interested in tattoos. Many questions with very few answers.

Why do people do them? How do they pick what to ink on their flesh? Big or small? How many? Where to place them? What does this one particular symbol mean to them? What happens when the meaning changes? When emotions fade? When she breaks it off with him, or he with her? What does that one numbered date on her neck mean? Why is it significant? How does that one piece of art change in shape when the canvas matures? Do they plan for aging? Is it worth the pain? If so, how come?

Insert your answer(s) or more of your own questions here.

Back to the tattooed lady who dropped by Starbucks-Rabieh on a hot day a few months ago. The one who emanated creativity, poetic flair, audacity, and a splash of a wild, free spirit. If you get this, I’d like to tell your story. I could finally read what’s inscribed on your thigh, leg, whatever.

Chances are that this was a once-in-a-lifetime encounter that would not repeat. You know. We’ve all had those. Some, we regret. Others, we’re happy we dodged the bullet.

But what if she happens to read this, or someone who knows her does? The woman with a tattoo crowning her left leg. What if the universe wants her story told?

Tony’s Starbucks ☕️: Brewed. Very black.