“Don’t talk about my home like that, son.”
“You just accused me of being a squatter—” I shake my head. “Never mind. I’m Eden’s brother. From across the—”
The old man interrupts me with a joyous belly laugh. “Oh. Tuesday afternoon was very entertaining.” He steps out from behind the counter and walks over to the large window at the front of the shop. “He was right out here,” he says, pointing to the road in front of the tattoo shop. “Yelling. Throwing things onto the street in front of cars. I even watched him bop the young-fellow with the shaved head right in the nose.” He turnsback to me. “Let me guess. The girl they were fighting over cleaned his place out, oooorr… The crybaby ran away leaving you high and dry?”
I run my free hand through my hair, then pull on it. “Both, actually.”
The old man shakes his head as if he’s saying,of course that’s what happened,and shuffles back behind the counter. “Look, son,” he says as he takes his seat again. “If you have any questions about anyone in this town, you just come and ask me. I’ll tell you the truth. I know everything that goes on.”
I give him an awkward salute because Ithinkhe's being nice, and drag my haul outside.
Across the street is Teken Ink. Through the big window, I see Tek. He’s hunched over a client, sleeves rolled up. His hair is bleached, just like in the latest bunch of pictures I've seen him tagged in on Instagram.
I stand, watching him for way too long.
I consider going in, but my feet won’t do it. Instead, I drag my new furniture down the block to the grocery store.
The guy on my table is stomach down in his own world. His earbuds are turned up so high I can hear them over the buzz of the tattoo gun, but I’m thankful for it.
I don’t want to talk.
I don’t want to have to make excuses for why the shop is nothing at all like our reputation describes.
The guy drove all the way up from Portland to have me work on him. He’s Korean, too, and heard about my Dancheong art. He's booked in for two calf cuffs that will take at least three sessions.
He doesn’t know what the shop sounds like with four people, with banter and Eden’s asshole laugh echoing off the tiles.
I know he doesn’t care that half the place is empty. I know he didn’t make the drive for the atmosphere. Even so, my body feels so heavy with guilt that I’m not sure if I could form a sentence if he did decide to talk.
This isn’t the hardest work I’ve done but the placement means I have to put more of my body into it. It’s the angle, really—leaning over, holding his skin tight, inking long woven streaks of black from his knee to half-way down his Achilles.
He doesn’t flinch. Not even when I near his ankles.
I wish all men would sit like this. They’re usually the worst. Give me a woman to work on any day of the week.
I wipe down the back of his calf and switch magnums. The outline is done, but there’s still time left in the session so I might as well get a head start on some of the band shading. The base of the cuff is wide, like temple eaves but in reverse. Two cranes; one wading, the other mid-flight, are the centerpiece of his right calf, a dragon and tiger star on his left amongst intricate geometric designs.
I wipe away the excess ink and stretch out my neck.
As I roll my shoulders I catch a glimpse of myself in the heavily tinted front window. My hair is due for another bleach, and even in the weak reflection I can see the bags under my eyes. The shop looks worse than I remembered, as well.
Two days ago I put every reminder of Eden and Reeze in the back room, and I don’t think I’ve had the time to take a proper look around since I left that night.
The paper towels are almost out. I left a box by the autoclave intending to refill the cupboard out here, but there’s still a half-drunk coffee from yesterday I haven’t thrown out by the computer and my trash bin is about to overflow, so it’s no surprise I’ve not moved it yet.
The phone rings, and I let it ring. My client stirs for the first time in ages, and takes out one of his earbuds.
“You good?” I ask in a flat voice.
He blinks. “Yeah. You can get that if you want.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “I’ll be done here in five minutes. If they want me bad enough, they can call back.”
The guy gives a dry chuckle and takes his phone out of his pocket for the remaining time.
I finish the section I’m shading; black and perfect.
I catch movement in the corner of my eye and see a figure in a black bomber jacket paused just beyond the door. They don't come in, but I watch them for a second before setting down my gun and cleaning the whole back of my client's calf with a green soap soaked cloth.
