A bouquet of roses on the thigh of a woman who'd been a whore in Paris during the second world war.
A shirt and shorts of Japanese history on a pierced guy about my age in for back surgery. "Will the incision mess up my art?"
The names of three children arranged in a biohazard sign on the bicep of a Marine.
Tiny parachuting stick figures and a crudely-rendered plane on the upper arm of a man who'd been a Russian paratrooper during WWII.
Four dots on the foot of a woman with a huge brain injury.
A teardrop on the left cheek of a man who'd been shot in the head.
Two, in the same week: one on the inside of the left forearm, from Monowitz. One, upper left chest, tattooed all at once earlier in the war, from Auschwitz I.
Umpteeen trails of barbed wire around biceps.
A dragon over a mastectomy scar.
The names of four children, all born dead, winding around an ankle.
One very well-padded woman on the chest of a Korean war veteran. He was embarrassed to let me see it, thinking I'd be offended.
I wish I could take a camera to work.