The phone keeps ringing.
I pause for a second. Shut my eyes tight. Hold my breath.
The bell rings. The shop door opens.
In he walks.
The same baggy brown chords he had on yesterday and his brother's red plaid jacket.
No eye contact. No greeting.
He walks straight behind the reception desk and picks up the phone.
“Teken Ink, you’re talking to Carey. How can I help you?” His voice is all honey. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, I’m really sorry. We’re a few men down at the moment so I apologize for that.” As the caller talks, he looks at me. There’s a moment of hesitation, then he smiles. Toothy and obnoxious, as though yesterday’s confrontation never happened.
“So, ah.” My client pulls back my attention. “That your boyfriend?” she asks, her mouth quirking because she's a little shit.
“Fuck no,” I say, and start shading again. It comes out darker than I expected. But I don’t fix it.
“Just the secretary then?”
“Huh?”
“A secretary, or whatever? There aren’t any stations set up so I assume he isn’t an artist.”
“He isn’t a secretary, either.”
When I wipe away the excess ink and dip my needles again, she props herself up on her elbows and looks at him. With the phone wedged between his head and shoulder, he flashes her a nonchalant peace sign then opens the desks drawers until he finds a stack of Post It notes. His ridiculous hair falls in his face, and he swipes his hand through it before picking up a pen.
“He looks like a secretary.”
I scoff. “If he looked like a secretary, I’d probably enjoy the sight of him.”
“Has that got anything to do with why you’re down a few guys in here?” Our eyes meet and she smiles. “I’m not being nosey, or anything. But also, I’m totally being nosey.”
I shake my head and force a smile back. “There’s no drama. Just a few things out of both of our control. And…” I bite my tongue.
“And?”
“And, nothing.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t do that.”
“I can,” I tell her, and after I’ve wiped away the latest ink and blood, I toss the paper towel in the trash.
“You’re no fun.”
“I didn’t know I had to be.”
I reach for more paper towel but feel nothing but the empty roll.
I swear under my breath, and go to stand, but a roll appears, held in a golden-tanned and veiny hand, like an olive branch. My eyes pan up, and Carey just stands there. No words, just a slow blink.
“Thanks,” I mutter, snatching it.
“What was he saying about me?” Carey asks my client, all sunshine.
“Not much, actually.”
