I hear the door to the shop open, and when I look up, Milo is brushing snow off his pants and shaking it off his hat. The shades are down over the windows, but the door doesn’t fully close. “Lock that door behind you,” I call out, then frown at myself for ordering him around. “If you don’t mind,” I add.
When Milo steps into the light, the grunt of my voice almost turns into a groan. He looks good. He’s wearing a pair of pink jeans. They must be from the nineties or something, and they hug him perfectly. It’s a bold fucking look, actually, and I’m impressed at how he pulls it off, with a goofy smile on his face that really sells it.
“Hi! I’m excited!” he greets me, then laughs. “Sorry. I just can’t believe it’s going to be done already!”
I nod toward my room in the back and start walking. “Sure is. But hey, if you decide you need to stop and finish it later, that’s no problem.”
“It’s funny, but I’m really not scared at all. I almost missed the feeling of getting the first tattoo when it stopped. Isn’t that weird? But anyway, sitting for a longer session sounds exciting. I think it might help relax my brain after I spent too much time studying this week.”
As we enter my room and I turn to the supplies, I smile to myself. The other day, standing outside the shop, he’d been a little shy, almost hesitant. But now that he’s back in my chair, I’m glad that he’s chatty again.
I’ve been looking forward to listening to that sweet voice.
“Let’s get a look,” I say, and Milo pulls his sweater off. He’s wearing a baby blue tank top, and the three purple flowers stand out beautifully on his golden skin, just like I remember. The most intricate work still has to happen, but I’m deeply satisfied to see that so far, it’s probably one of the best pieces I’ve done.
“You remember the routine?”
He nods. “So, how did the castle tattoo turn out?”
I grunt to myself, pleased he cared to remember. “Good. I’m happy with how it’s coming along.” As I wipe down his arm and prepare it, I decide to try to be a little more talkative. “It’s a breakup tattoo, so I think the client is ready for it to be over.”
“Matty told me breakup tattoos are a bad idea,” he says as I turn to my machine, which I set up right before he arrived.
“Why’s that?”
“Because then my tattoo would be about the guy I broke up with.”
I turn on the machine. “You ready?” And when he nods, I press the needle to his skin. Milo twitches, and I draw back, but when I lay my free hand behind his shoulder to steady him, I’m able to go back to work.
“A tattoo can be whatever you want it to be,” I tell him, focusing so I don’t get distracted by the idea of Milo with another person, whether they’re broken up or not.
“Oh, but it’s not a breakup tattoo,” he says again, and when I push the needle against his soft skin, his words spill out faster. “I had a breakup, but it’s not why I’m getting the tattoo. It’s um, a—” I shade across the petal, drawing the needle down the back of his arm, and his voice catches briefly. “It’s an empowerment tattoo. Shit! I didn’t want to say that.”
I almost chuckle, but I don’t want him to feel bad. It sounds like he’s getting a tattoo for about the same reason most people do and the reason I like to get them, too. When everything else in this fucked-up world is trying to control you and who you are, getting a tattoo is a way to take charge again.
“Tattoos make you feel good, at home in yourself,” I say. “I get that.”
Milo lets out a slow breath, pursing his nice lips. “Damn, I kind of tell you everything, don’t I? Like, you know I’m broke, and that I spend all my time studying, and that I’m insecure about my body, and anyway, what were you saying?” he finishes, his eyes darting around as he’s obviously trying to change the subject.
I furrow my brow and pretend to just work for a second. He’s making it pretty damn hard to keep the walls I’ve built up, but I do what I can to stay professional, although I really want to run my fingers beneath the strap of his tank and promise him that I’ll make all those problems go away.
“You can tell me whatever you want,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
A second passes, and I think I might have said the wrong thing, so I keep my eyes on the work and allow the art to flow from me to him. When I finally tilt my eyes up and glance at Milo again, his lips are softly parted, and there’s a surprised, almost needy look on his face.
“You really don’t mind me talking so much?”
Fuck, I’m just asking for trouble. “Yeah,” I manage with a raspy breath. “Go ahead. Whatever gets you through the tattoo.”
After a couple of seconds, I push the needle into his skin again, and Milo starts talking. “All day, I’ve been thinking about my old gym teacher,” he says. “It’s weird, but I can’t stop remembering stories about him. He thought I was such a wimp. All through junior high, it was like he made it his mission to toughen me up. And I tried, I really tried, but I couldn’t act the way he wanted me to, and I stayed clumsy and awkward whenever I tried to throw a football or climb a rope. So basically, he just bullied me for three years, and nothing changed. And I just keep thinking about him and all the jocks in that class. They’d probably laugh at me for getting a flower tattoo, but I don’t care anymore. Because right now, I feel like Iamtough, and that means I must be doing pretty good. I used to just feel embarrassed when I remembered Coach Jeffers, but now I’m like,fuck him!”
Milo lets out a deep breath, like he’s just released some demon he’d been holding in, but my muscles tense between my shoulders, and I have to pull the machine back for a second to steady myself. How fucking dare some gym teacher harass a kid like that. I’m sure Milo was a fucking dream to have in class, and this dickhead jock went and made him feel bad about himself. If I knew where the guy was, I would have trouble stopping myself from kicking his ass and telling him who the real wimp was.
I grit my teeth and look up to Milo. “I’ve got a flower tattoo,” I say simply, then tap the side of my neck. “Doesn’t make me a wimp.”
His eyes land on the rose, one of the first pieces I got. “What does your flower mean?” he asks.
I pretend to mess with the machine. “It’s a rose,” I say, as though that answers his question, then go straight back to work.
