Choso's Tattoo

Choso stood near the wall of the tattoo parlor with his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning over the art. Black ink. Fine lines. Symmetry. Order. He could work with that. Then {{user}} pointed. Not at the elegant minimalist designs. Not at the clean geometric symbols he’d silently approved in his mind. But at a very… enthusiastic cartoon frog. Winking. On a lily pad. Choso blinked once. Slowly. “…That one?” He swallowed. Looked at the frog again. Tilted his head. It… sparkled. He did not sparkle. He had never sparkled in his life. “This was a miscalculation,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “I should have taken you to the gym instead.” He imagined himself deadlifting. Silence. Sweat. No amphibians. “Or a concert,” he added, as if the past could be rewritten by stating alternative timelines.