“Yum,” I say brightly. “Fruit salad.”
Rafael laughs. His hairy legs, strong from riding his bike, stick out of his denim shorts, which only go halfway down his thigh, and he wears this loose black T-shirt. “Stone lent me this,” he says, then lifts the machine. “He said it can be my practice needle.”
I drop my backpack to the couch, kick off my shoes, and then lift a stray grapefruit. Inked into the fruit, there are two stick figure people and one stick figure cat, all blotchy. “Cute,” I smile.
“That’s us,” Rafael says.
There’s a little flutter of pleasure in my chest. “Tattooing, cool. I take it you’re still considering a new direction in your illustrious illustration career?” I chuckle at my word choice.
Rafael picks up a grapefruit; then the needle buzzes as he inks into it. “Not a career, actually. I’ve been thinking that I really do love the idea of tattooing, so I probably shouldn’t make it a career.”
I sit on the couch. “This sounds like Rafael logic.”
He looks up to me with a shrug. His glasses have slid a little down his nose, and I notice that his dark beard is getting longer at the bottom. “I want to learn how to tattoo. It’s actually really fascinating and beautiful. I knew that before, but I’m learning more now.” He shakes his head, then looks back at the grapefruit. “But I’m not convinced that means I should make a job out of it.”
I hesitate. This is the kind of thinking I hear from him all the time about his art. He doesn’t want to pick up freelance work or solicited projects because his art should be its own thing. That makes total sense to me, and I appreciate his dedication. He honestly does spend all of his free time drawing and working on his projects.
But the practical part of my brain thinks that my friend needs to start figuring out a better way to earn an income, and I’m not always convinced that his weird logics serve him well.
Sometimes, just not always.
Rafael tosses me the grapefruit, which I fumble, then lift from the floor. “I’m getting better,” he says.
And it’s true. There’s a hatched pattern across the surface of the grapefruit, crisp and clean. “Wow.” I toss the fruit back. “How long until you can tattoo a person?”
Rafael frowns. “Well, actually…” He grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts it, then points. There’s a blurry line on his skin, right beneath his ribs, smaller than my pinky finger is wide. “I got impatient,” he chuckles.
“Oh my god,” I laugh and lean forward. “Although I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Rafael carefully sets the machine on our wooden coffee table. “It was exciting,” he says. He’s one of the only people I can imagine who would just so casually go and tattoo himself. “I promise, once I figure out my craft, you can have as many tattoos as you want.”
I laugh as I stand, then cross to the bathroom. “I don’t know how inked up I need to get. Although getting a few tattoos sounds fun.” I open the little cupboard and rummage around, grabbing a few things. “Is Stone giving you lessons?” I call over my shoulder.
“Kind of! I’m going to stop in again this week,” Rafael answers. “Show him my progress.” He looks up as I return to the room, noticing the supplies in my arms. “What’s all that?”
“I’m cleaning your new tattoo,” I say, then sit down beside him. “We’ll just put a little antiseptic on there and give it a nice breathable bandage, and we’ll be all set.”
Rafael sighs but doesn’t argue. “Thank you, Alexander,” he mutters as he pulls his shirt off.
My pulse skips as I reach out to clean the spot. The tattoo is so small, and I just barely pat it with the cleaning pad. My fingers graze Rafael’s skin. He rides his bike everywhere, and he’s got a big appetite, and his body has a solid, meaty strength, warm against my fingertips.
Before I get too lost in how good he feels, I pull my hand back and clear my throat. “Another lesson with Stone, that’s great,” I say.
“I somehow left one of my sketchpads at the tattoo shop. I have to go back anyway.” Rafael cranes his head to look at me. “Hey, speaking of this week, did you finally schedule with Davis?”
I unpeel the bandage. “You know me,” I answer, then press it to his tattoo. “I’ve been very successful at not thinking about it.”
“For someone who hates procrastination, you still manage to put some things off.”
I smooth the bandage down, then lean back. We’re side by side, our heads turned to face each other, hips at each other’s thighs. Rafael meets my gaze, catching me through his glasses, and it’s one of those times when I swear he can read my mind.
“What are you nervous about?” he asks, gently. “It’s just a date.”
I sigh. He still has his shirt off, and the white waistband of his underwear sticks out from his shorts, which is distracting. I’m not about to blurt out the truth—that Davis isn’t Rafael, and so why should I waste my time with him?
There is another reason, though. One I can share with my best friend. “I’m worried that I’m a bad kisser,” I admit.
Rafael sucks in a surprised breath. “What? Absolutely not.”
