Instead, I ask what I think is an unloaded question, “Do your parents know?” But the look she gives me makes me immediately think I've revealed too much.
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason, I'm just...were they cool with it?” I wince. How many times have I saidcoolin this conversation?
“They were, but even if they hadn't been, it's got nothing to do with them who I fancy or kiss or whatever.”
“Right, yeah, cool.”Oh, for fucks sake.
I open my mouth to ask her how long she's been out, and if she's seeing someone right now, but a tell-tale stabbing pain has me leaning forward, a hand to my stomach. Oh fuck, not again.
“Are you okay?” she asks as I lean against the edge of the table.
“Yeah, just got a bit of a bad stomachache,” I tell her, trying not to grimace.
“Okay, do you need water? To go to the loo?” She's too matter of fact to sound caring but there's a crease of concern between her eyebrows nonetheless.
“No, I'm okay. I'll just head home,” I say and start moving to the door. “Really cool painting,” I add before ducking out of the room and hobbling as fast as I can to the nearest toilet.
FIVE
DION
NOW
He hasn't changed a bit.From the tracksuit and trainers he's wearing down to the floppy hair style that has his hair falling in those alarmingly blue eyes, it’s the same man. I'd forgotten just how striking his eyes were, almost glacial in this room’s bright lights, but in the dimmer hue of the studio's front room, they'd been a darker blue, like the colour of the ocean, miles and miles away from land.
He'sbarely changed, but me? I'm a whole different person.
Of course he doesn't recognise me. Eight years on testosterone has reshaped the angles of my face, broadened my shoulders and deepened my voice. I’ve got a beard now and thicker, longer hairs covering my arms and a happy trail that really does make me happy. Top surgery five years ago gave me the freedom of a body I no longer dressed to hide, and while I haven't necessarily lost weight, hormones and the occasional gym session has redistributed mass around my body in a way that is mercifully more masculine.
I've grown so accustomed to being perceived as a man that being misgendered is almost completely a thing of the past but I can always tell when someone is unsure or even just inquisitive about my presentation or my gender. It's a squint in their eyes, a stare that lingers a little too long, a smile that does too much. And Benji Smith isn't giving me any of that. He obviously sees me as a man, so why on Earth would he even be thinking about...what I used to look like.
I should be pleased, I think, as I check my materials tray one last time. I should be relieved and bottling up this moment of gender euphoria. But I don't feel particularly happy. I feel...Honestly, I don't know how I feel. I just know that a small part of me wishes he recognised me.
No, that would be stupid. That would completely change the dynamic of the appointment. That would dig up too many things I’d long ago buried. Maybe he'd ask me questions about my transition that I don't want to answer. He'd deadname me and talk about school like that was a good time in my life because it was for him. Or, God forbid, he'd maybe even want to discussthat night.
Or worse, he wouldn't mention it at all.
The best thing that can happen right now is I get this over and done with. The sooner his tattoo is done, the sooner he can pay and leave, and the sooner I can go home, cook Dad dinner, fold the laundry I left in the dryer and then disappear into my room and paint until my eyes grow heavy.
But then I roll my way back to Ben's side, taking the metal side table with me and I look at the words I'm about to ink on his arm and I find it difficult to think clearlyabout anything.
toujours mon amour.
His mum's writing. It's classically French. All bubble-esque loops and a very, very slight lean to the left. And it's familiar, annoyingly familiar. I know I've seen it before but I don't know where or why because what possible reason could there be for me having seen Benji’s mum’s handwriting. And why would I remember it?
I'm chewing on this the same way I do other unsolved mysteries that bug me—song lyrics when I don't know the name of the song, literary references I can't immediately pin to a book or an author, tattoos I know I've done before but I fail to remember the client's name or face—as I switch the needle on, grab a piece of paper towel and hold Ben’s arm in one hand, ready to gently stretch the skin taut and start work.
“Wait!” He flinches, pulling his arm back. “Sorry I'm a bit...Nervous. It's not the needle or the pain,” he rushes to explain, “it's just...I don't mean to be rude but are you sure you can get it right? It really needs to look exactly like her writing. Otherwise...otherwise...”
He doesn't finish his sentence and by the look on his face he doesn't have to. His chin quivers slightly and his dark brows are pulled together.
I put the needle and the paper towel back on the tray and pull up the sleeve of my T-shirt.
“Meet Mr Twinkles,” I say.
“Mr what?” He looks dumbfounded but still he leans in closer to study the new school tattoo of the cavapoodle I had from the age of four until sixteen. It wraps around my bicep, covering my entire arm and took me over thirty hoursto finish.
