Scott puts up his hand for a high-five, his feather tattoo showing. I align my hand with his and slide my fingers between his long skinny bones.
"You're a fuckin' weirdo... but I dig you." He says.
"I am a weirdo." I say, implying the vast difference between our levels of normalcy.
"Aaaaaand I am playing Pokemon. So...there's that."
Beside him, the old Gameboy graphics blink blurrily on the screen of our flat screen desktop computer. Big block letters await his direction. He has muted the music. He isn't working in the morning and this is how he relaxes. I try not to judge his refusal to spend free time reading books about global warming, fruit or water depletion. If there aren't dragons, swordplay, magic or journeys on horseback, he isn't interested. Currently, he's waiting for the Star Wars book he ordered to arrive at our local libray. Until then, it's child's play.
"When are we going to get our next tattoo?" I ask.
"I don't know. When we reach the next phase of our marriage. I think we're still in the feather phase." He says.
"So when the feather settles."