“Your mum died,” he says and then nods at my stomach. “And by the looks of it you also have chronic health issues.”
I replay the way he just said those words searching for discomfort, judgement or second-hand shame. But they’re not there. He’s just brisk and brusque and matter of fact.
“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”
He rolls a bit further away, as if to give me space to stand up, but he doesn’t leave. He stays close enough, and I don’t know if it’s an invitation to talk or not, but the words tumble out of me regardless. “Mum died of breast cancer. She had it the first time about six years ago, and she got through it. Went into remission. But then it came back, just over a year ago. And it was…It was a completely different story.” I exhale a shuddering breath. “And me,” I point to my stomach, “I have Crohn’s disease. Had it a long time, but this is a very new, er, accessory. I’m still getting used to it.”
“Does it help?” Dion asks, another unloaded question.
“Yeah, it does,” I say and realise I need to remind myselfof this more often rather than focusing on all the ways it’s made my life different and awkward. It wasn’t like life was easy before when I was in agony most days and needed hospital stays once or twice a year because of bowel obstruction or dehydration. “I’ve just got to get used to it, which they say will take some time.”
“I hope it continues to help,” he says, and for a moment we share eye contact. His eyes. There’s something about them. I mean, yes, they’re beautiful. Long lashes, dark, dark brown irises that are big enough to be described as Disney Prince-esque, but there’s something else there. There’s something about his eyes. There’s something abouthim.
I’m about to ask him where he went to school, maybe he was somebody I knew from football training. Maybe I played against him if he went to a rival school. I know he wasn’t in my year at school. There’s no way I would forget somebody who’s as, well, fucking hot as him. I’m about to find out more information, but Dion rolls away on his stool and continues talking himself.
“My dad has a chronic illness,” he says as he tidies up at the counter behind my chair. “MS. He was diagnosed when I was a kid, so a while ago now. There’s not much they can do for him other than keep up treatment plans and encourage him to manage his energy and take his meds. It’s hard. Especially now he’s getting older.”
I move my body so I’m sitting sideways, my feet on the ground. “Is he local?”
“Yeah, I still live with him and my mum actually.” Dion walks towards me again. I smile at how he doesn’t even seem to be embarrassed about living with his parents. He must be my age, if not a little older or younger, and yet he sounds like he couldn’t give a shit what I may think about his living arrangements.
“For those homecooked meals?” I tease.
Dion gives me a very blank and not exactly friendly look. “No, because my dad needs help, and my mum works shifts, so she isn’t always there to do what needs to be done.”
I bite my lips into my mouth. That’s me thoroughly told.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” I stand. The sooner I can get out of this place the better. I’ve definitely overstayed my welcome and it seems even when we get close to connecting on something, I fuck it up.
He squints at me. “You say sorry too much.”
“I think I say things that warrant apologies too much.” I huff out a rough chuckle to accompany my self-deprecation, but Dion does not laugh with me.
“If you have any problems with your tattoo, call us,” Dion says as I walk to the door, holding my sweatshirt in one hand and being extra careful not to knock my tattooed forearm.
“Okay. Will do. Thanks,” I mumble, and I hear Dion follow me through to the front of the studio.
Once at the counter, I dig in my pocket for my wallet so I can pay the bill, which I do without us sharing any more conversation. Picking up my jumper to put it on, I pause and wonder how I can do this without brushing the material up against my raw, freshly tattooed skin. It’s not that it hurts. I just don’t want to risk dislodging the wrap and doing something else wrong.
“It’s fine,” Dion says, looking at me frozen with my hands in the sweatshirt. “The cover isn’t going anywhere.”
“Right, okay, yeah,” I say, and then I pull the jumper over my head. When it’s in place, I see Dion looking at my mid-section. Maybe he wasn’t as blasé about my colostomy bag as I thought. But I guess I have to get used to that. It’snot like anyone is actually going to look at it and think, ‘Wow, that’s sexy’.
But I push this thought to the back of my mind and focus on getting out of here so I can go home, lie in my childhood bedroom and sulk in peace. What a thrilling evening I have ahead of me.
“So, thanks for your time and work,” I say, because I do owe Dion that much. He did a perfect job. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”
To my surprise a small smile pulls his full lips up. “The best kind of praise a tattoo artist can hear.” He nods at me, and I suddenly don’t want to leave. I want to make that smile grow. I want to find out more about him. I want to know, ridiculously, if maybe I could see him again…
But that’s foolish. I’m just feeling sad and lonely and like I have no real direction or purpose in this town that I thought I’d left behind me a long time ago.
Maybe I’ll see him around, and if I’m lucky he’ll remember who I am and he’ll say ‘hi’. Yep, that’s the best possible scenario I can expect right now.
“Cool, well, I’ll see you around,” I say and step back, half-stumbling my way to the front door. When I pull it towards me, it doesn’t budge. I try again, but nothing.
“Oh, shit, yeah, it’s locked. Mari locked us in for security because we’d be out the back,” Dion says, and he starts looking around behind the counter. “They left me some keys so I’ll just find them and then…”
I stand at the door unsure if I should move or just stand and wait. My indecision makes me feel a lot more awkward than just going to help, but that’s the story of my life.
