Daphne’s eyes fluttered closed.
April tried to breathe normally.
Her stomach was a riot of nerves, which was simply ridiculous. She thought of her cats, of tattoo ink, the Providence RiverPedestrian Bridge near RISD. Anything but the relaxed sighs coming out of Daphne’s mouth.
April squirted the dye into the large mixing bowl she’d also stashed in her car, then started working it through Daphne’s dry hair with a dye brush.
“You have a nice touch,” Daphne said. Her voice was muzzy, sleepy, and April knew it was the alcohol, but the entire vibe here was making her hands shake.
She needed a distraction.
“What kind of tattoo do you want?” April asked.
Daphne opened her eyes, and she seemed momentarily startled by how close April was. Her gaze flicked down to April’s chest—which, yes, it was impossible for April tonotpress her boobs against Daphne’s shoulder.
April cleared her throat, focused on Daphne’s hair.
“I want you to design one for me,” Daphne finally said. “I told you that.”
An image blew into April’s mind, like the wind pushing a storm over the lake—wildflowers and light, the hues almost like watercolors over Daphne’s pale skin.
“Tattoos are personal things,” April said, shaking her head. “I can’t choose one for you.”
“What do yours mean, then?”
April laughed lightly. “Which one?”
“All of them.”
April was quiet for a second. She had over twenty tattoos right now, spiraling down both arms, over her chest, a few on her thighs, one right between her breasts.
“What’s this one mean?” Daphne asked when April remained silent. She reached out, her fingertips lightly grazing the flowering tree on April’s right upper arm, which curled over her shoulderand down toward her collarbone. She had a mirror image on her left arm, but of a barren tree in winter.
April shivered, and Daphne pulled away.
“It means change,” April said, and the word felt heavy on her tongue. “Seasons, life, death.”
“ ‘A time to be born, and a time to die,’ ” Daphne said.
April paused in her work. “Did you just quote the Bible at me?”
Daphne winced, then tapped her temple. “Some parts are stuck in there like a bad song.”
“I don’t know,” April said. “I’ve always liked that bit—a time for everything.”
“It’s from Ecclesiastes, which is a wisdom book,” Daphne said. “ ‘A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.’ ”
April nodded, smoothing a thick swirl of lavender through the blond. “Basically what these tattoos mean.”
“What else do you have?” Daphne asked.
“I have a few astrology tattoos. Three, actually.” She held up her arm, showing off one of them on her left forearm, a simple gray-and-black sketch of a woman with short dark hair and a scorpion’s tail, kneeling in the grass and holding a blazing sun between her hands.
“She looks like you,” Daphne said, and April smiled.
“I guess that was the point,” April said. “She was my first tattoo. Got her the second I turned eighteen.”
“Did you always want to be a tattoo artist?”
