5
In a matter of seconds, John’s face
contorted.
He abruptly stood, slamming the table, his
voice strained and sharp:
“Saran, now long are you going to keep τnis
up? You want a divorce because of one
photo? Didn’t you say you’d unconditionally
support my work?”
“I’m a photographer; it’s normal to shoot
somewhat explicit work. It’s art, not porn.
Your mind is too dirty!”
In his outburst, John didn’t notice the spilled
sauce on his fingers.
He instinctively wiped them, pulling a
document from his bag:
“I told you, I’ve scheduled a new release date
for that photo. The paperwork’s approved; I
didn’t lie!”
But the photo wasn’t my concern.
“Care to explain the tattoo?”
I sipped my tea, looking at him.
John’s aggression deflated.
He stammered, unsure how to respond.
As a severe OCD and germaphobe, John
would never allow a tattoo artist to puncture
his skin.
Even if disposable needles were used, it
would be risky in his eyes.
Unless Jessica had influenced him, then it all
made sense.
“It… it was to make the artwork more visually
appealing. Don’t misunderstand. I… I just
wanted to try something new.”
His speech faltered, his excuses illogical.
How far would he go for Jessica?
I was curious.
As I prepared to reiterate the divorce, his
phone rang.
He glanced at the number, his fear subsiding.
He answered with a relaxed, affectionate
tone:
“Jessica, what’s up so late?”
A shriek came from the other end.
“John. our adopted kitten’s about to give
birth! Help me; I don’t know what to do.”
