“You’re not even looking,” my client, Marcus, says with a nervous laugh.
“Don’t need to.” I don’t glance up from the delicate line work I’m tracing across his forearm. “I could do this blindfolded. But then you’d probably sue me, so.”
He chuckles, and I feel the vibration through my gloved fingers. I pause, waiting for him to settle.
“Sorry, sorry.”
“Breathe. You’re doing great.” I resume the fine detail work, a geometric compass rose that’s taken me three sessions to perfect. Marcus wanted something that represented finding his way after a divorce, and I’d sketched twelve different versions before landing on this one. “Almost done with this section.”
The studio smells the way it always does, like antiseptic, ink, and the faint vanilla from the candle Zoe insists on burning at the front desk. Late afternoon sun filters through the industrial windows, catching dust motes in the air. My station is in the back corner, my kingdom, decorated with flash sheets I’ve designed, framed photos of my favorite pieces, and a sign that reads ‘Your bad decisions are my rent money.’
“Ava, you got a walk-in!” Zoe calls from the front.
“Booked solid,” I call back, not breaking my focus. “Tell them to check the website for openings.”
“He says he’ll wait.”
“Then he’ll be waiting a while.”
I finish the last line, sit back, and finally look at Marcus’ arm.Perfect.The shading is exactly what I wanted, with subtle gradients that make the compass appear three-dimensional, almost floating above his skin.
“Check it out.” I hand him the mirror.
His eyes go wide. “Holy shit.”
“Language,” I deadpan, though I’m grinning. “This is a professional establishment.”
“Ava, this is… I mean, this is exactly…” He shakes his head, actually getting choked up. “Thank you.”
Andthisis why I do what I do. Not for the money, though I charge what I’m worth. Not for theInstagramfollows, though @InkDistrictAva has a decent following. I do it for this moment right here, when someone sees a piece of themselves reflected in art that’ll stay with them forever.
“You’re welcome.” I start wrapping his arm, my movements practiced and efficient. “Same aftercare as before, keep it clean, moisturized, out of direct sunlight. No swimming, no soaking, no picking at it when it peels.”
“Got it.” He’s still staring at his reflection in awe.
After Marcus pays and leaves, with a generous tip that makes me do a little internal fist pump, I clean my station. Zoe appears at my elbow, twirling a pen between her fingers.
“So, that guy who’s waiting…”
“Zoe.”
“He’s hot.”
“Don’t care.”
“Like,stupidhot. Tall. Great arms. Has this whole athlete thing going on.”
I freeze mid-wipe. “Athlete?”
“Oh yeah. Definitely. He’s got that walk, you know? All confidence and—”
“No.”
“Ava.”
“No.” I toss the used supplies in the bin harder than necessary. “You know the rule.”
Zoe sighs dramatically. She’s twenty-two, wears her hair in elaborate braids, and has exactly zero patience for my rules. “Your rule is stupid.”
