Back at the reception desk I slump down onto the stool. Looking at the Jeoseung Saja, I scrunch up my nose at it. There’s something not right. Taking a thicker tipped marker, I outline the Hanbok and color in the Gat. Then I go over the face, making the jaw sharper and the nose bridge higher. I take out the pack of colored pens and fill in the beads and eyes.
When I'm finished, I rub my knuckles over my eyes and dig in so hard I see fireworks behind my lids. Then I sit there in the echo of my own breathing, counting out the seconds.
I don’t know how long it’s been when I hear a tap on the glass. I jerk my head up, but there’s no one at my window, it’s someone knocking across the street and waving inside.
I check my phone; Eight-fourteen.
Standing up, I stretch, then start preparing my station, but it’s too quiet.
I go to the Bluetooth speaker and put on the loudest, old-school metal I can find.
The spray bottle is where I left it, and after wiping my station down I wrap it in new plastic film. I line up the sterile packed needles, the disposable ink cups, the roll of paper towel. Everything by muscle memory, letting the routine drown out the rest of my thoughts. Though when I’m done, my sketchbook compels me to look at the Jeoseung Saja again.
My head tilts to the side as I stare at the face. It takes a second for my brain to click, but when it does, my whole spine goes cold.
I’ve drawn his eyes. One pale blue, one gray, both of them round and piercing at the same time. The mouth is a little thin, but the nose and chin are his and I can’t unsee it.
I want to tear the page out and eat it so there’s no proof it ever existed.
There’s a rattle and a metallic pop as the back door sticks in the frame before opening. I freeze, my heart racing. The presence behind me feels so big, like it could tear the door from its hinges, yet all that follows is a dull thump as it closes again.
I know it’s him.
Not even Brooklyn would be dumb enough to show up uninvited expecting to work like he did.
He forced his way in.
Insisted himself upon me.
Gave me no other option.
I hear a slap against the tiles and glance over my shoulder to see that he dropped his slippers to the ground. I watch as he kicks off his Vans and scuffs into the navy ones that match mine.
The ones I’m wearing right now.
He turns around and I quickly look back at the counter.
Fuck. My sketchbook is still out.
I slam it shut and shove it in the top drawer under the desk. My hand finds a pen, and I start drawing random lines on a sticky note with my head down so he can’t see my face.
He walks past without a word. He drops his board in the storage locker, then takes off his jacket—still his brother's plaid parka—and hangs it on the metal door.
I wait for him to say something, anything. But all he does is fill the kettle with water and set it to boil.
I try to relax by chewing on the end of the pen.
Carey steps onto the shop floor and heads straight for my station. He picks up the work table by the stand beneath it, careful not to touch my set up. After taking it to the back room, he returns to fold up the tattoo tables, stacks them by the back door, then wheels the tattoo chair and stool into the back room, as well. He collects the foot pedal and power cords, and the waiting area chairs.
He knows exactly what to do, needing no approval.
He grabs the stick vacuum from the back and runs it twice over the tiles.
He mops, taking the time to switch out the old head for a new one.
I try to read over the file for my first client, but every few seconds I’m looking over at him. He's all business, not cocky, not showing any anger, just working steadily and with purpose. Which is more than I can say for myself.
It’s comforting.
