An Image of Death by Libby Fischer Hellmann

edge. Each day they sat closer together, and one day, his hand casually grazed hers. The next day, he pinned her behind one of the monuments and kissed her, long and deep. When she could breathe again, she kissed him back. The next day she took him into an abandoned church not far from the hospital. They were married four months later.
    Now, caught up in the memory, Arin smiled and started humming “Start Me Up,” the first track on Tattoo You.
    “I know that song,” Mika said thickly. She was stretched out, half drunk, on the floor.
    Arin explained. It was their song, hers and Sacha’s. She would sing or hum it whenever she wanted Sacha to touch her. To “start her up,” she’d sing in broken English. Usually he would comply.
    “Tatuirovka? Tattoo?” Mika asked.
    “Da.”
    Mika rolled over and pushed up to her elbows. “Now that is an excellent idea.”
    Arin tilted her head. “What?”
    Laughing, Mika rose unsteadily to her feet. “Put on your shoes and come with me.” Her eyes shone. “Do not worry. The men will love it.”
    A few minutes later, she and Mika were en route to Tbilisi, forty kilometers away. Their ride dropped them off at the top of a cobblestone street in the old city. Tottering in flimsy shoes, Arin clutched Mika’s arm as they stumbled down the rise. Sacha said the old city was supposed to look like Paris—whatever that looked like. Here, though, someone’s laundry was strung across a porch. You wouldn’t see that in Paris, she was sure. “Where are we going?”
    “A place that Vlad knows.”
    Arin frowned. Vlad was a charmer, but there was something wild and dangerous about him. Sometimes she caught him staring at her with those pale blue eyes. But just as she would begin to say something, he would break into a crooked smile and make some wonderfully funny comment or joke. He was a born leader, Sacha said, a soldier who knew how to dangle the carrot as well as the stick. He could be ruthless, particularly when it came to dyedovschina , the fierce hazing of new recruits. But the men in his unit were devoted to him, and Mika said he would rule the world one day. She was only half joking.
    As they passed narrow buildings separated by even narrower streets, Arin’s head felt light and spongy. She hoped they didn’t have far to go. Thankfully, Mika turned into an alley and stopped at a dimly lit shop. Arin could just make out pictures, cartoons really, tacked to the shop’s window. Across the alley was a video parlor, featuring the latest titles from Japan. Next to it was a seedy-looking souvenir shop. A radio somewhere was playing sad music.
    The man who opened the door eyed them suspiciously, but after Mika explained, he grunted and swung the door wide. Arin was troubled by the gritty, dingy look of the place, but Mika seemed at ease, and Arin was too drunk to pick a fight. After negotiating the price—Mika could talk anyone into anything—she lay down on the table and unbuttoned her blouse.
    She and Arin had decided on the design on the ride into town. The tattoo would include two stars on either side of a flaming torch. Arin remembered seeing the same design on some of the soldiers’ arms. When she asked Sacha about it, he said Vlad had come up with it. The two stars represented the stars on a lieutenant’s shoulder board. The torch symbolized fire. Fire was a powerful, masculine energy, Sacha had said. Uncontrolled, it was destructive and unpredictable, but when it was used properly, it could vanquish anything. Just like the soldiers in their divisions. But she wasn’t expected to understand, Sacha added. She was just a woman.
    But Arin did understand one thing. A tattoo would mark her as his. Forever. And that was what she wanted. When it was her turn, she rolled up her sleeve and lay on the table. Squeezing her eyes shut, she ignored the sting of the needle, imagining instead how she would reveal the tattoo to Sacha. She would wear a long-sleeved sweater until bedtime. Then