“No way? Yeah, let’s go.”
And that’s exactly what we do.
ELEVEN
BENJI
NOW
“Benji,”he steps back, letting me go, and points at my arm. “It was in your mum’s letter. I’m guessing that’s your preferred nickname.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t…” I don’t finish the sentence. I’m being paranoid. And stupid. Because he’s right, the name was in the letter. I didn’t think he’d even looked at that part, the beginning, but I must have got that wrong.
“Is it not your preferred name?” he asks.
“It is,” I admit. “But people around here mostly know me as Ben.”
“Around here?” he questions, and I realise he’s asking me to explain.
“My uni friends, they know me as Benji, but when I used to live here, growing up, I was always Ben.”
“Right,” Dion says and his eyes darken a little as they hold onto mine. He seems momentarily lost in thought, one particular thought or several, I can’t tell. But then he blinks and starts to move.
“Well, it worked, anyway,” I say as I watch him walk back to the counter and start typing on the laptop there.
“What worked?” He doesn’t look up.
“It calmed me down.” I take a seat on the sofa that’s pushed against the wall next to the window.
“That’s…good,” he says, distractedly. I guess he must be doing something important. Hopefully something that will get us out of here. I wait, hoping he’ll update me or at least tell me what he’s doing, but he keeps typing, and then he bends over and starts counting cash in a small metallic box. Eventually, he takes it into the backroom and while out of sight I hear some doors close, drawers being opened and closed and some other noises I can’t place.
“So what do we do now?” I ask when he’s back at the counter, his phone in his hand and he’s busy typing again.
He looks up at me and it’s almost like he’d forgotten I was here. He looks a little stunned and very preoccupied. And then his face goes blank, those full cheeks softening and some life returning to his dark eyes.
“I guess I could make you a cup of tea,” he says on a sigh.
Suddenly, I’m gasping for exactly that. “That would be great. But do you have non-dairy milk? Lactose and me are not friends.” I rub at my stomach.
He gives me a look that borders on condescending. “We’re a queer tattoo studio full of plants and recycled vintage furniture. What do you think?”
I smile. “Right. Cool.”
“Oat, soy, almond or rice?”
“Wow, okay, that’s … oat, please.”
He turns to go back to the other room.
I push up to stand. “Shall I come with you?”
“No!” he calls out and it’s not a response I think I should disobey.
Sitting back down, I take in the space again. The floors and walls are painted white, and Dion is right, there are several plants on display all looking like they’re in great condition. I turn and admire some of the art on the walls. A hodgepodge mix of photos of tattoos or tattoo artists in action, illustrations demonstrating different tattoo styles, I believe, and some abstract art that captures the attention but doesn’t distract from the overall eclectic feel. A strange thought occurs to me as I admire it all; maybe I could have a wall of framed art like this in my mother’s house. No,myhouse.
I really have to try and get used to that.
“Do you take sugar?” Dion says as he returns with two steaming mugs in his hands.
