We could tell that the waitress serving the next table had a tattoo, but only about a quarter-inch of it extended beyond the bottom of her shirt sleeve. What was visible wasn’t complex. It just looked like the bottom of a plain square. “I think that it’s a Polaroid picture.” Maybe it was temporal proximity; just the day before, Brian had made me stuff his exposed Polaroids into my purse. “No way. There is no way anyone would get that tattoo. Not in a million years.” I thought it was a pretty good idea for a tattoo. Simple, inoffensive to everyone, and you could even get strangers to draw in it with washable markers as an ice breaker. “In fact, I’ll bet you one hundred dollars that it’s not.”
Why did I take the bet? I’m not sure. Did I think he would pull his hand away at the last moment before shaking? Is it because he offered me 10:1 odds? Was I really sure that it was, indeed, a Polaroid photo? No, it was definitely not that last one.
After Brian handed me my winnings, I told him what I was going to do with it: I was going to buy Polaroid film. I still have no idea what I’m going to use the ten packages of lightly-expired professional-quality 779 for, but buying something thematic makes me feel a little less like I’m stealing from my friend.