I look at the clock on the computer. It’s only eight-fifteen a.m. but I know who she is. She called last week, overly excited. Shawn had chewed my ear out for booking an eight-thirty a.m. appointment, so I started taking more of them.
I push the stool back from the counter to let her in because she’s wearing a skirt and it’s too cold for her to stand outside.
When she hears the lock click she jumps around, her face lit up like the Fourth of July.
“Sorry I’m early,” she says, following me in. “I’m guessing you’re Tek. Or, Wootek?” She corrects herself.
“Tek’s fine,” I tell her as she follows me to the reception desk.
I move the mouse around as she leans over to look at the shark sketch, her bright teal hair—cut blunt at her shoulders with a part right down the middle—falls forward as she giggles. “Did someone ask for that?”
“Kind of,” I reply flatly, looking at her booking. “Liv, right?”
“Yep.” She nods, rocking back and forth from heel to toe with excitement.
“Let me see what you brought.” I move in front of her and lean on the glass countertop with my forearms.
She lays down the folder she’s been holding and opens it up. Inside are printouts of someone else’s tattoos, and one hand-drawn sketch. She points at the sketch. “This one.”
I study it, then her, then the sketch again. It’s of two cartoon cats, except their tails are too long, and they curl around their bodies and back to their mouths, Ouroboros style, so they’re eating their own tails. “Who drew it?”
“My girlfriend. We both love cats and met in our mythology class at college. It’s for my birthday. She doesn’t know I’m getting it done.”
“She’ll be surprised,” I say, because I know that’s what she wants to hear.
“Can you make it a little bigger? About this size.” She holds up her hands to show me.
“Sure. Where do you want it?”
With no consideration for where a boundary might lie, she rounds the desk to stand beside me. “Right here,” she says, lifting up her shirt to circle the skin over her right hip bone, but inadvertently baring her whole stomach in the process. A stomach of smooth, unblemished skin with that perfect softness women have below their belly buttons.
“It hurts over the bone,” I tell her, tearing my eyes away. “Do you want numbing cream?”
“Will I need it?”
“Most women don’t. And the results are better if you don’t use it.”
“Then, no. I’m not scared.” She smiles up at me.
“You can put your shirt down.”
“Oh sorry.” She blushes. “Was that awkward? I just figured you’d want to see.”
I shake my head, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. “It’s fine. I’ll be looking at it for the next hour anyway.”
She giggles and takes a step back.
“You can go sit over there.” I gesture to one of the chairs by the door. “Do you want a coffee?”
She says no, asking for water instead, and I point her towards the fridge in the corner.
I head to the back room, scan the drawing, change the size, set it to print, then wash my hands.
When I head back out to my station she’s sitting down swinging her legs.
I wheel my workstation from against the wall and wrap its top with plastic. I wipe down the padded table and recline it’s back so it’s flat then wrap the middle in plastic film as well.
After collecting the stencil from the printer I set up my station with all the ink and needles I'll need, then I pull on a pair of black surgical gloves.
