The Actuality of It All

The Actuality of it All

I

(Or, insanity attempts to take its hold)

The butterfly tattoo on Verity's hipbone flutters its multicoloured wings as George runs his thumb over it, and in the darkness of her bedroom he smiles to himself. He's always marvelling at her body these days; how she's somehow managed to remain whole even after what's happened in the past few years. Rebuilding and Restarting, Percy's personal motto, is tougher than it sounds.

What's all this, then? Do mine eyes deceive me? You managed to bag Verity-'Keep-Your-Hands-There' Bloom? George, my boy, as our Jewish friends would say: Mazel Tov!

George ignores the voice that he knows Verity can't hear, and focuses instead on the contrast of the green and pink ink against her fair skin. Outside, a streetlamp flickers to life, sending vertical lines of shadow across their entwined bodies as it shines through the blinds in the window.

So she really does have a tattoo, eh? I always suspected she did...most girls like her have at least one tattoo. Angie had one, did you know that? With two kids together, I think you do. A tribal band she got when she went to Africa to train with the Proudsticks, allll the way out in Patonga. I shouldn't say she had one, though, seeing as she's still alive...It's right on her lower back...Want to know how I know this?

George tries to hum a Hobgoblins tune loudly in his head, name the paper constellations that lie stationary on Verity's ceiling, count the number of freckles along his right arm; anything to stop the image of his dead brother and Angelina Johnson having sex from filling his mind.

You know what else mate? In about sixty years or so, there's going to be an entire generation of tattoo-covered elderly women.

George snorts in held-back laughter, unable to deny Fred any longer. Verity rolls over, the arc of her back now facing him and the butterfly hidden by blankets.

What if she has kids, Georgie-boy? That butterfly'll be the size of Wales after she's pushed out a couple of 'em...

George shakes his head from right to left, the universal sign for "NO". Verity moves in her sleep beside him, her left foot gently nudging the inside of his right calf as she does so.

A lot of women get tattoos when they're hot young chickadees, then they all marry themselves off and have a bunch of babies. And before you know it, foomph. That tattoo's the size of Dad's old Ford Anglia and doesn't look like anything close to a butterfly.

George smirks, his lips held in a tight line to hold in his laughter. Fred can try all he wants, but he can't make him fuck things up with Verity. He already did that with Angelina, and Merlin be damned if his dead twin thinks he'll get away with it again.

What if Mum had a tattoo?

"Now that's just plain sick, mate," George says aloud before he can stop himself.

"Geor...George?" Verity yawns, her back still to him as she speaks.

"Hmm?"

"Who are you talking to?"

"Nobody. Go back to sleep."

"Mmm..." Verity sighs and rolls back over, curling herself into the spot between his chest and the crook of his elbow; a place where she seems to fit perfectly. George stares at the curves of her body and brushes her short blonde hair away from her forehead. A few freckles adorn the small widow's peak that lies there, and in his comfortable position George resists the urge to lean over and kiss them all.

Awww, is ickle Georgie in luuuuurve?

And it is in the stillness of the night, with Verity's soft breasts against his chest and her deep breathing in his ear, George whispers the words he'd never thought he'd hear himself say:

"Drop dead, Fred."