#ocnw

Story: 

The clock read 1 AM. Desdemona sat on the couch in the living room, barely paying attention to the crappy paid programming. Gregor was supposed to have been home an hour before, but she hadn't heard anything from her legal husband. As she was about to call his cell phone, she heard a car door shut outside, soon followed by footsteps approaching the door. As she listened, a key turned the bolt, allowing someone to enter.

"It's really late," she called down. Gregor's head soon appeared above the railing that blocked the stairs from her view. He shrugged without looking at her and walked through to the kitchen. Desdemona shut the television off before joining him, leaning against the door frame.

"So where were you?" she pressed. He was bent over, holding the fridge door open, no doubt looking for something to satisfy his hunger.

"I told you, I went out to drink," he answered shortly.

"Yeah, but you were also gone an hour longer than you said you would be."

Finally, Gregor stopped and stood straight, glancing at the clock on the stove.

"Good Lord, is that really the time?" He laughed to himself, shaking his head. "Sorry, Des, I just lost track."

"Alright, well, next time, try to let me know," she told him, turning to leave.

"Don't you wanna hear about what I did?" he asked, causing her to turn back.

"You just said you went out to drink," she answered, now skeptical.

"Yeah, but you know what happens when guys get drunk, right?"

"I don't want to hear about your sexual exploitation," Desdemona said, suddenly disgusted.

"Wait, you have to hear this!" Gregor said, trying not to laugh. "And the only sex involved is the touching of my genitals."

"We're not actually married!" she cried, pretending to be frustrated but moving to sit down. Once she had taken her seat, Gregor joined her, a wicked smile now on his face as he leaned across the table.

"Alright, so we placed bets," he began. "At first, they were simple drinking bets. Who will take the most shots, who will be the worst off, and so on. Then Daniel began telling these awful stories about what his friends have done while drunk. It came to a story about one of his friends tattooing a guy's dick."

Desdemona's eyes widened, but she remained silent, waiting for Gregor to continue.

"Daniel says that his friend is a tattoo artist, and one night they're drunk as a bee after partaking of fermented fruit." He often resorted to old phrases from before he was turned, but Desdemona could usually figure out what he meant. "And they bet this guy that he couldn't get a complete tattoo on his dick. So they went out to do it, and he only got halfway through before he insisted they stop. He lost twenty dollars."

Even having lived through more inflation than she cared to know, Desdemona was impressed by the sum of money.

"So what does this have to do with your being late?” she asked, desperate now for him to prove her theory wrong. "The buzzing of the needle starts up, and Daniel tries one more time to get me to stop, but I tell him that it's okay, I will do this, and he shouldn't mourn me if I die.

"So the artist started putting on the ink and, finally, with one last sympathetic look at me, he starts the tattoo. Just picture, I'm watching him work and all the other guys are cringing like it's happening to them, and I'm just sitting there, not feeling a thing."

Now Desdemona burst into laughter.

"What happened when you were done?” she questioned, worried for the mental state of Gregor’s friends.

"They paid for everything for me after," he said, a know-it-all smirk on his face now. "Some late snacks, the cab home, and one more drink to 'numb the pain'."

Still smiling broadly, Desdemona shook her head, pressing her fingers to her lips, apparently lost in thought.

"Wait, you said it was a bet," she said, suddenly remembering the reason for the story. "How much did you get for it?"

"Twenty dollars," he responded, seemingly proud of himself.

 "Gosh, you're an idiot," she laughed. "Come on, it's late. We have some work to do."

As they left the kitchen together, Desdemona thought of another question.

"What did you get a tattoo of?"