At 5:40, she’s waiting at the curb outside my building, engine idling, music thumping a beat so heavy the windows vibrate. The car smells like leather and lavender, and Mina’s in head-to-toe black, hair coiled up in a messy bun with loose curls falling around her face.
“Let’s go, babe. We’re making bad decisions tonight.”
I buckle up. “What’s the plan?”
“You, me, and a hot tattoo artist with a needle,” Mina says. “We have an appointment at Bloodline.”
She’s already driving before I can say anything, merging onto the highway with predatory focus. I watch the city lights flicker past the windshield. Mina hums along to the music, drumming a rhythm on the wheel, and after a few miles, I let the vibration of the ride melt some of my tension away.
When we pull up to the tattoo shop, Mina puts the car in park and starts gathering her things. Before reaching for the handle, she looks at me and asks, “Know what you’re gonna get?”
“I think so,” I reply hesitantly.
She gives me a sly smile. “Then let’s do this, birthday girl.”
Inside, the shop is all neon and flash art, the sound of buzzing tattoo guns undercutting the low thump of classic rock. Mina checks us in at the front, and the receptionist hands us both forms, her knuckles covered in unreadable lettering. I fill out my name, stalling at the line where it asks who to contact “in case of emergency.”
For a second, my brain blanks. The last thing I need is my parents getting a call that I passed out getting a tattoo. Nash is ahard no. James, laughable. I write Mina’s number with a shaky hand and slide the clipboard back across the desk.
The receptionist asks, “What are we getting done today, ladies?”
Mina answers first. “Dealer’s choice.”
I look at her with wide eyes, but she just smiles and shrugs her shoulders.
The receptionist nods her head and says, “Cool. And for you?”
“Um, I was thinking about getting the scales of justice. Small. On my wrist.”
“Ave! So cute!” Mina says to me before turning back to the receptionist and adding, “She’s an attorney and a Libra. Today is actually her birthday.”
“Oh, happy birthday!” the receptionist says.
“Thanks,” I say with a soft smile.
“Everyone ready?” she asks.
Mina and I both nod and follow the receptionist behind the counter to the tattoo artists’ stations.
The artist Mina’s set up with is exactly her type: tattooed to the knuckles, nose ring, looks like he bench presses motorcycles for fun. He introduces himself as River and gestures for us to sit. Mina’s already full throttle, talking shit and flirting, and within five minutes River is sketching out a design on a scrap of paper, grinning at everything she says. It’s a banter-off, and even though my nerves are a jangled mess, there’s a comfort in watching someone else enjoy the things I used to.
My artist is quieter. She asks me to roll up my sleeve and tapes down a stencil, the crisp outline of the scales angled just over the pulse point on my wrist. When she asks if I’m ready, I nod, though my hands are already clammy. I keep my gaze on the wall, at the rows of flash art: snakes twined, hearts stabbed with daggers, half-naked pin-up girls.
The needle is nothing at first. A vibration, a static hum, the anticipation worse than the pain. Then the pain hits, a stinging heat that builds on itself, over and over. I focus on the sound, the weird intimacy of a stranger pressing a tool into my skin, leaving something permanent. The artist is attentive, asking if I’m okay, and I say yes every time, even when the answer is closer to maybe.
The needle slows, then clicks off. My artist wipes the skin gently, and when I look down at my wrist, I feel a weird, proud tug at the sight. The scales are neat, almost delicate. The artist covers it in clear film and tapes the edges, her hands gentle.
“Done already?” Mina teases, her own skin red and raw.
I roll my eyes, but it’s easier now, the pain already fading into a kind of soreness.
“You’re going to pass out before he finishes the shading,” I shoot back, and River gives a quick, appreciative laugh.
Mina’s already halfway through her session, the outline of a small tiger curving up the inside of her arm. She’s talking with River about music festivals, bad exes, and the best breakfast tacos within walking distance.
When Mina’s tiger is finally finished, River wraps her arm with a wink.
“Wash it with antibacterial soap and keep it moisturized, okay?” he says, giving her a look that suggests he’ll be checking her adherence to his instructions personally.
