The Rythmn of the Saints
The entire time we talked, I glanced at Peter’s wrist, where the dark whorls and edges of a tattoo crept up from the edge of his sleeve. Curious, I pointed to it and asked him what it was. The move was bold, his eyebrows raised, but after a moment of his steady gaze on my face, he turned his wrist to the light and shifted down the edge of his sleeve. Dark script formed the word “Graceland” across his wrist. I stared blankly at the dense script under the light. …