Every window glows.
Each passing group of strangers sounds like they’re laughing louder than should be allowed at this hour.
“This city feels crazy,” I say after a minute.
“Crazy good or crazy bad?” Blake asks.
“Crazy like someone built it specifically so people could make impulsive decisions.”
“That sounds like a recommendation,” he replies.
“It might be.”
We pass three bars, two souvenir shops, and a place selling cowboy hats before I see it.
It isn’t large.
It isn’t flashy.
Just a narrow storefront with warm light inside and a small neon sign in the window shaped like a needle and a rose.
I stop walking.
Blake notices immediately.
“What?” he asks.
“That,” I say, pointing.
He follows my gaze. Then looks back at me. Then back at the sign again.
“You’ve been talking about that for months,” he says slowly.
“I know. This is it. It has to happen.”
The tattoo shop looks exactly the way tattoo shops always do in my imagination, cleaner than expected, quieter than the street outside, filled with framed artwork that somehow makes the walls feel less like decoration and more like history, and the moment we step inside, the air changes again, softer and steadier than the noise we left behind.
“Hi,” the artist behind the counter says.“Walk-in?”
I look at Blake.
He looks at me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly once we sit down with the design books spread between us on the counter.
“No,” I admit.
“That’s usually a sign not to do something permanent.”
“It’s usually a sign to do something important,” I correct.
He studies my face carefully.
“You’ve wanted this for a long time.”
“I have.”
