I didn’t let myself think about it as I drove, and I didn’t stop to think about it when I parked and walked in. “Hey,” I said, realizing that maybe it hadn’t been the smartest idea not to at least think of what to say beyond hey, because I had no idea. I felt shy, suddenly, as I always seemed to around good-looking guys. He was especially handsome though, with his beard and short, tousled hair. His eyes were dark blue, like the color of washed denim, and even though he was physically imposing, there was a kindness in his eyes that put me a little more at ease. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was here last night with my friend.”
He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Chloe, right?”
I returned his smile, pleased that he had remembered my name. “Right,” I said. “And I’m not drunk.”
There was a pause and I felt my face start to flush again. I had meant that last part to come out sounding lighthearted, joking, but it sounded more like a proposition, or maybe a threat.
He looked at the clock on the wall behind me. “Seeing as it’s 1:30 in the afternoon, I’d say that’s a good thing.”
“Yeah. So ... I would like to get a tattoo. Something simple, and small. I like flowers a lot. I know that’s kind of a cliché, but I don’t want something that’s totally wacky just for the sake of being different. And ... yeah. ”
He leaned across the counter and was doodling something in a sketchbook as I talked. I realized how vague I was sounding, but I was having difficulty describing what it was I wanted. It was as thoug
h I could see it in my mind but couldn’t adequately explain it with words.
“And I’m thinking it might have to be somewhere that isn’t visible. I don’t want one on my lower back, because I’d actually like to be able to see it myself, so maybe ... well ... where would you say people usually get them when they want to be able to hide it?”
He stopped drawing and straightened. “There’s a lot of places, actually, it really just depends on what your preference is. Bottom of your foot, back of your neck—if you wear your hair down—between your fingers, ribcage, upper thigh.” He spun the sketch pad toward me. “Something like that?”
I looked down at what he’d drawn and felt my breath catch in my throat. How long had he spent doing that? Two minutes? Less? He’d rendered, in perfect, thin, black lines of ink, a delicate stem with 10 or 11 offshoots of poppy blooms. It was minimalist and simple, but also stunningly beautiful.
“That’s exactly what I wanted,” I said. I looked up at him. “How did you know?” I realized I sounded like an awestruck fangirl, but it really was like he’d somehow managed to access the part of my brain that knew what the tattoo was supposed to look like, even when I myself couldn’t articulate it.
He shrugged. “That was just the first thing that came to mind after you described what you wanted.”
Now it was just a matter of figuring out where it should go. I didn’t want it on the bottom of my foot, and though it was small, it was too big to go between my fingers. Plus, I didn’t know how long the recovery time would be or what exactly it would be like, and I needed both my hands to start working on my sculpture. The back of the neck might be okay, but then I would only be able to see it if I looked in the mirror. It was such a pretty image that I wanted to be able to look at it easily. And, I wanted other people to be able to see it, too.
“Here,” I said, touching my inner forearm right below the elbow crease. “I want it right here.”
“That’s a good placement,” he said. “But you’re going to have to wear long sleeves all the time if you want to keep it hidden.”
I shook my head. “I think I changed my mind about that. I don’t actually want to keep it hidden.”
He regarded me, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying not to laugh. I felt myself start to blush. Yes, I was coming across as a fool who didn’t actually know what she wanted, but so what? Really, I was feeling proud of myself for coming down here alone to begin with. For someone like Tara, it wouldn’t even be a thing, but for me ... this was actually a big deal.
“Are you about to laugh at me?” I asked. “Because I’m not actually trying to be funny.”
“I’m not going to laugh at you,” he said, in such a way that made me believe him. “But, I am curious—who are you trying to hide this tattoo from?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to say my parents, because that made me sound like a teenager. Which I wasn’t, so it wasn’t as though my parents could actually do anything to me anyway.
“It’s something my parents probably won’t be too thrilled about,” I said. “Not that it matters, though, because I’m 21. I’m just ... I’m just staying with them this summer, so I’ll be seeing them more than during the school year.”
“You’re in school?”
“Yeah. Art school. Which, according to my parents, isn’t really school and I’m wasting my time.”
He leaned across the counter again and looked at me with those deep, blue eyes. “So, is this tattoo more about being rebellious? Which is totally fine, if it is. People do that.”
“No. Yes. Well, I don’t know!” And I really didn’t. Would I be here right now if my parents hadn’t made me feel like such shit about being in art school? Probably not. I’d probably be dutifully working on my sculpture, completely ignorant and blissful about how excited my parents would be that I had something that was going to be in an art exhibition.
“I’ve been doing a lot of hand poked tattoos lately,” he said. “And this will come out really nicely if I do it that way.”
“Okay,” I said. “But ... excuse my ignorance, what is that?”
“I’m not going to use the mechanical gun. It’s a bit of a slower process, but I’ve come to like it a lot better. And it’s perfect for something like this. A hand poked tattoo is usually made up of a lot of lines, dots, negative space. This will come out really nice.”
“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great.” I had no idea what he was talking about, to be completely honest, but I didn’t want to tell him that. “I’m ready.”