Calmly, Carefully, Completely(101)

I pick up a marker and start to fill in the lines. And I go outside the lines with purpose. I smile at Paul, and he grins back and winks.

When I’m done, I stare down at it. The daisy is colorful and pretty, but withdrawn with its petals submissively lying down, and it’s leaning toward the shaft of sunlight. “This is me, isn’t it?” I ask quietly.

“Is it?” he replies, but he doesn’t look up at me. He keeps drawing.

“Yeah.” It’s me. I tap his arm, and he looks at my fingers, his brow arched like he’s amused. “Can you put this on me?” I ask. I’m almost breathless, I’m so excited.

“Do you want some time to think about it?” he asks.

“Do you usually ask people that?” I reply.

“Only when I think I need to.” He still looks amused but serious at the same time. He heaves a sigh. “Where do you want it?”

“Where do you suggest?” I ask.

“Maybe on your shoulder?” he says. He slides latex gloves over his fingers and snaps them on his wrists. “You don’t think Pete will mind if I do this, do you?” he asks. I’m not sure he really cares, but I’m glad he asked.

“Well, if you were going to put it on my inner thigh,” I say, “I could see him not liking it.” I laugh at the thought.

“Oh, that was going to be next place I suggested.” He snaps his latex-covered fingers, but they don’t make any noise. I get the idea, though.

A laugh bubbles from my throat. Paul starts pouring colors into tiny little cups. “You’re going to have to take that off,” he says, and he tugs on the arm of my T-shirt.

Uh oh. I didn’t think of that. He pulls a T-shirt from a cabinet and uses a pair of scissors to cut down the back of it. I take it, grateful that he thought of it. He turns his back while I pull my shirt over my head and slide the torn T-shirt on. It hangs open at the back, but I don’t care. I leave my bra on. He did say my shoulder, after all.

“Wow,” he breathes, when he walks around behind me. “You guys had a lot of fun last night, didn’t you?” He chuckles. I look over my shoulder and flush at all the ink that I never did wash off. I haven’t been home long enough.

“We were trying out some designs,” I stumble to say.

“Umm hmm,” he hums. “Sure you were.” He laughs, and a grin tugs at my lips. “The tramp stamp is pretty creative.”

I haven’t even seen that one yet. “What does it say?” I look back over my shoulder.

He points to a mirror behind me, and I go stand in front of it and look over my shoulder. I blush like crazy when I see that he’s written, Pete’s girl in a gothic script with squiggly flowers and vines draping down below the waist of my jeans.

Paul opens the curtain and motions to Logan. He comes to the back and signs something to Paul. Paul shows him the design, and Logan picks up a pencil and starts to add something to it. “Don’t worry,” Paul says to me. “You’ll love it.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Trust me,” he says. He turns me around, and I sit down on the tattoo table. “Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

He transfers the outline of the design to my skin. The quiet motor of the tattoo gun starts to run, and I feel it touch my shoulder. It’s like an ant bite. It doesn’t hurt. And when he starts to move it, the pain goes away completely. I sit quietly, and sometimes Logan speaks to me. I talk to him, careful to look at him when I respond, but he doesn’t have any problem talking to me even though I don’t know sign language. He’s pretty witty, actually. After we start the second hour, Emily sticks her head behind the curtain.