I wondered how long I’d been sitting here. Twenty minutes. Forty. An hour. The outside world felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
The machine finally cut off, and the sudden quiet rang in my ears.
Sage sat back on her stool and flexed her fingers inside the gloves.
“Okay,” she said. “You can look.”
I pushed up on my elbows and looked down, not sure what I was going to find. The only thought in my head was that it couldn’t be a dick and balls.
What met me was a wash of water color smudges curving over my ribs, blues bleeding into pink and greens, edged by a black stroke that looked as if it was dragged on by an actual paintbrush instead of a needle. The circle wasn’t closed, though. The pigment thinned near the end, as if whoever started it had run out before finishing the thought.
I frowned at it. “What is it?”
“If you don’t already know, then I guess you’ll find out when you find out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She looked almost too pleased with herself when she said, “It’s the one you’re getting,” as she peeled the protective film into place.
“But… Is it finished?”
She met my eyes. “No. But that’s the point.”
I looked back down at the open arc on my skin. It felt intentionally incomplete in a careless yet meaningful way. A way that was waiting for something.
“So I’m just gonna walk around with unfinished tattoos now, huh?”
She stood and moved toward the sink. I slid off the chair and reached for my shirt, careful of the fresh wrap along my side. The fabric dragged when I pulled it down and I winced.
“Relax,” she called over the rush of water. “It’s covered.”
I watched while she scrubbed her hands. The fluorescent light caught in the silver of her piercings. A loose wisp of hair had escaped at the nape of her neck, curling against her skin, tempting me to reach out and brush it back into place.
“Okay,” she said, drying her hands. “Am I free to go home now?”
I huffed a laugh and grabbed my jacket. “Yeah. Thanks. For… whatever this was. I needed it.”
We stepped out from the booth and into the main floor, our footsteps echoing against concrete. The studio had lost its air of indifference. Now it felt like a place that was mine.
“I’d say sure, any time,” she went on as she flicked off one bank of lights, “but I don’t want you making a habit of showing up here after hours. So I’ll just say thanks for curbing your existential crisis. Like I said, I charge extra for those.”
“Oh, shit. Payment.” I reached for my wallet, but her hand shot out and closed around my arm.
“Don’t.” She stepped around the counter and headed for the door, already unlocking it.
“I’m not walking out of here without paying you.”
She pulled the door open and waved me toward it. “You can pay me by coming to my showing next week. My friend has a small gallery, and she bamboozled me into displaying one of my pieces.”
I hesitated on the threshold. “Your Icy Veins friend also runs a gallery?”
She laughed, pushing lightly at my shoulder to move me outside. “I have more than one friend. Shocker, I know.”
The night air hit cool against the flush of warmth creeping up the back of my neck.
“If I go,” I said, turning back toward her, “does that make me one of them? Your friends?”
She didn’t answer. Just gave me a look that could’ve meant anything and shut the door in my face.
