When we entered the solarium, I glanced down at his hand and noticed a few tattoos. I stopped and pulled his hands closer to my face to examine them. One hand had an entire paragraph of Italian scrawled on it. The other had a black crow with the initials “M.M.” under it.
“Who is M. M.?” I asked.
“It stands for memento mori.”
“What does that mean?”
“Remember, you must die.”
“Huh?”
“It says memento mori, which means remember, you must die in Latin.”
“That’s kind of creepy.”
“It’s not creepy at all. It’s truth. It’s the only truth. The only certainty in life.”
“Yeah, I guess. But why would you want to be reminded of that every time you look at your hand?” I swayed a bit as he stepped closer. I could feel his breath on my face, and it smelled like cigarettes and wine. “You can’t escape it. It doesn’t matter who you are, how much you have, or what you do, you will die. For me, it’s a constant reminder to make the most out of every moment. To not just exist, but to truly live.” He bent down a bit, leaned in close, and pressed his lips to my neck just under my ear. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt my legs turn to jelly. “You don’t really think I’m dangerous, do you?” he whispered into my ear. I turned my head and said, “I wouldn’t still be here if I did.” One of his eyes squinted just a bit and he started to bring one hand towards my hair. I backed away and cleared my throat.
“So what does this one say?” I gestured towards the paragraph on his other hand. He spoke in perfect Italian, without looking down at his hand. “In quel libro che è la mia memoria, nella prima pagina del primo capitolo, che è il giorno in cui ti ho incontrato per la prima volta, appaiono le parole, qui inizia una nuova vita.”
“Okay. The most I can translate is nuova vita. New life.”
“That’s right. It’s the introduction to Dante’s La Vita Nuova. It says, ‘In the book of my memory, on the first page of the first chapter that is the day I met you, the words appear: here begins a new life.’”
“That’s Dante talking about Beatrice, right?”
“Yes.”
“So, who do you have that written on your hand for?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t met her yet.”
There was a pause, and I thought he might try to kiss me. His eye contact was too intense, and I grasped for a way to continue the conversation. “Any other tattoos?” He grinned and swiftly pulled his shirt off. The sight of his muscular, tattooed chest and arms and that warm familiarity between us made me lightheaded. I’ll be honest. If he had been just a bit more forceful at that moment, I would have given myself completely. I tried to concentrate on the tattoos. There was a skull on his chest that looked like it was melting. On one shoulder leading down his arm were pieces of a broken clock, an angel, stormy clouds, a skull, roses, and a human heart. Scrawled across his hip was another line in Italian.
“la morte non è la fine dell’amore, la morte non è la fine”
I knew that morte meant death. “Wow. You’re like, obsessed with death,” I muttered.
“Quite the opposite really. I’m obsessed with life. I want to experience as much life as I can in every moment.”
“Maybe your tattoo should say remember life?” He stared at me and seemed to be searching my face for something. “You can put your shirt back on now,” I commanded as I began to walk away.
“You haven’t seen the tattoos on my back.”
“I got the gist. Death and carpe diem stuff.”
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