“What’s wrong?” asked my tattoo artist.

I took another swig from the bottle. “Ann left me.”

His bloodshot eyes said he knew the feeling. “Zita walked out on me,” he confessed.

I blinked, shared the bottle.

When I woke, I found a swirling, black ‘Z’ forever inscribed on my chest.

Alexis A. Hunter specializes in short stories and flash fiction. Thankfully, she types her imaginings out now instead of scribbling them in notebooks like she did as a child.  To learn more about Alexis visit www.idreamagain.wordpress.com.