ACCIDENTALS

Don’t ask how he found her. He just did, okay?

It was the type of bar that you’d expect, and she was there. Sort of punk. He liked that. Went up to talk to her. She blew smoke in his face, and he bought her a beer.

He was in the mood for tragedy. He wanted something that he could sell, or inject. He had a guitar, blah de blah. Cliché. He didn’t care though, he just wanted to write a goddamn song about something and maybe get on with his life.

At first he thought they were flies. Those dark tracks on her arm. She looked away, and got up to leave. He saw then that they were music notes.

Her skin was a staff, with spidery lines wrapping around eighths and sixteenths. It was beautiful, a counterpoint trailing off onto the soft part of her inner arm. Scattered with accidentals.

All of a sudden, he couldn’t think. Asked if he could take a picture of her tattoo. It was so beautiful, like nothing he’d seen. She actually smiled, like the act was unfamiliar. She said it was okay, so he did.

He went home clutching his camera in his arms, a picture a song, alone. He didn’t need anything else.

Already forgotten her name. This would keep him distracted for awhile.

THE END

First short story in awhile. Did I delete words mercilessly enough?