“Come on over,” I say, using my heels to wheel my stool in position.
She stands in front of me, suddenly shy, needing to be guided, her excitement having morphed into nerves.
“I need to prep your skin,” I tell her, and she undoes her denim skirt and shimmies it and her underwear until just before the point of no return. But it’s when she lifts her top again that I swallow, and quickly direct my attention elsewhere.
I take the disposable razor and shave the area. Then I clean it, rub Speed Stick over her skin then press the stencil down on it.After peeling the paper away I ask her to go take a look at the positioning and excitement bubbles back up again as she twists and turns, checking it out from every angle.
I pat the table. “Make sure your hips are right over the plastic.”
She kicks off her shoes and climbs up.
The shop phone rings. She looks at me, then to the phone, and back again. “You gonna get that?”
“It’ll stop.”
She laughs. “Do you not like talking to people?”
“I talk plenty… When stuff’s worth talking about.”
She wriggles around until she’s comfortable, then the buzz starts.
She doesn’t flinch even when I drag the outline over her hip bone. She just talks away; about her girlfriend, about college, about how they might move to L.A.
Every time she asks me a question I give a grunt, or a “yeah,” but she doesn’t notice. Everyone in the chair is different, and for her, the adrenaline doesn’t give her jaw a break. But she’s an easy client. Her mouth doesn't make my job harder.
I work quickly on the outline. I want to finish fast, but I also want to do it right. That’s the trap—wanting two things at once. It’s paralyzing.
I wish I could leave. Not just the shop, but the whole town. Drive my van off into the sunset. Take the Amtrak north and never come back. Find a job in Vancouver and start over. But I also want to prove that I made the right choice all those years ago to change majors. And that it wasn’t a mistake to go into business with my best friend
I finish the outline and wipe the blood. “You want a break?”
She shakes her head. “I’m good.”
She’s tough. I like her for that.
The phone rings again.
This time when it stops, it starts up a few seconds later.
“You sure you don’t wanna get that?”
I shake my head.
I want the relentless ringing to stop, but I’m stuck. I can’t move from my chair. I wish the damn thing would explode. Anything to stop the incessant howling like those fucking sirens.
I want to throw the weight that’s bearing down on me aside.
I want to scream.
I want to hurt someone for making me feel this way.
But I don’t. I never do. Not anymore.
That’s the rule.
My hands keep going.
The shading needles keep dragging over her skin.
