“I have a tattoo of yours,” Alastair began.
Finn kept on painting. Indeed, he seemed not to know there was anybody there.
Undeterred, Alastair repeated the line again, although more clunkily.
Nothing.
Miffed, the surfer—a world-class one, thank you very much—coughed. Loudly.
Finn blinked, and for a second, looked like he just stepped off the Mother Ship onto a completely alien planet. “Bwah?”
Alastair grinned. “I said, I have a tattoo of yours. See?” He hiked up the legs of his trunks, to show his thighs. Two nude, winged men, one on each leg, their double-handed swords raised, were rushing each other. It was actually two separate paintings. Alastair had to have one scaled up to match. One man was Summer triumphing over Winter, the other was taken from a fight scene taken from Zoroastrian myth.
Finn smiled slightly, in approval. “You didn’t censor them.”
“What?”
“Most people cover up the genitalia.”
“Men look better naked.”
Now it was Finn’s turn to cough. “Ah. Well. Um, I’m sorry?”
“Alastair Abercrombie.”
“The surfing champion?”
“You heard of me?”
“I heard that press conference where you told your parents to ‘suck your big gay cock’ when they cut you off you for being gay.”
The surfer burst out laughing. “You should have seen their faces.”
“I did see their faces. The news cut to an interview with them afterwards.”
“Heh. Nothing can piss off an Abercrombie like telling them to go fuck themselves. We have a ‘thing’ for being important; can’t quite comprehend it when we aren’t.”
Finn smiled again. “I’m—“
“Finnegan Cavanaugh. Painter extraordinaire. I know.” I know a few other things, too.
“I wouldn’t say ‘extraordinaire.”
“You think ink any old thing on me?”
“I guess not,” the painter replied, guffawing. He was the very soul of politeness, in a New Age, trippy sort of way. However, there was one thing he was not.
Ugh. Straight as a board. How do I get out of this?
“So, what are you painting?”
Finn brightened. “This? Oh, it’s a commission for the aquarium down in Monterey.”
“Pretty. What, no mermen or anything?”
“Ha. No. No mermen. Or maids. I had to be realistic this time around. I saw you, by the way.”
“What?”
“Surfing. Nobody else has as many tats as you. You’re easy to spot.”
“You ever surf?”
“Oh, no. Not me.”
“It’s easy. I can teach you.” Why did I say that?
“Let me get the painting done first. I have deadlines,” Finn replied, turning back to his work and finishing off a wave. Before Alastair had time to feel uncomfortable, Finn began again.Finn rinsed his brushes. “It’s good work, by the way.”
“What?”
“Those tats. They’re very well done. It’s a compliment to me that you wanted them on you, and had them done so well.”
“Oh! I know a guy. He’s real good at his work.” Why do I suddenly feel like a moron?
“We’re all artists,” Finn replied, looking over his shoulder with an odd smile. “But tell me something.”
“What?”
“Do you look better naked?”
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