I quickly change my clothes and return to his work area, smiling nervously at him as I climb into the chair. He already has all his tools laid out on his workbench: the gun, itty-bitty cups of ink, and paper towels. Rock music is playing in the background, too, which I don’t recall hearing earlier, and incense is burning in the corner. He snaps on a pair of black latex gloves like a gothic surgeon and swivels his stool toward me.
“I have your sketch here,” he says, “ . . . and I gotta say. I really like it, and I think you’re gonna love it.”
He holds up a large piece of tracing paper for me to look at. It bears a design that I simply described to him via email a week earlier—a vine that swirls from the very top of my outer thigh down to my ankle, with swirly pieces that have different colored jewel-like flowers, as well as tiny butterflies and hummingbirds scattered about with wispy fillers. His sketch is an amazing work of art in itself. In fact, it’s so beautiful that I want to frame it and hang it on the wall at home. Somehow, he has captured exactly what I envisioned in my head.
Speechless, I stare at his drawing for a few moments. “Wow . . . it’s perfect.” I’m a bit nervous that it’s such a big tattoo for my first, but I don’t want to get some little tiny meaningless tattoo to ‘practice’ with before this one. I want something that’s worth it, something I’m committed to, that symbolizes the new me.
Grinning, he tapes it up to the wall next to the chair. “I tattoo freehand. That means that I don’t sketch it out on you first, like an outline, and then fill it in. Instead, I tattoo just like I would draw or paint on paper and canvas.”
“Oh . . . so, what if you make a mistake?” I ask.
Laughing a little, he shakes his head. “You’re the first person to ever ask me that.”
Leave it to me to be the first idiot to offend this amazing artist. “I’m sorry.” My eyes glance back to his sketch. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. Just curiosity, I guess.”
“Hey, I’m not offended at all,” he answers. “I admire cautious people who aren’t afraid to ask questions, especially about some guy marking their body for life.”
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “Well?” I urge, raising my eyebrows up at him. “What happens if you make a mistake? Is there some kind of like eraser thing?”
He looks at me sideways and winks. “I don’t make mistakes. And if I did? I’d do it so well you wouldn’t even realize it happened.”
“I see,” I say, admiring his confidence.
“Some things in life, you just can’t do over. They’re meant to be permanent, whether they’re what we expected or not. Doesn’t mean they’re a mistake.”
I blink at him, allowing his words to sink in. “Very wise words, Lukas. Impressive.”
“Yeah, I’m like a walking fortune cookie. It’s from reading too much.”
“You can never read too much. How does that saying go? He who reads lives a thousand lives?”
He nods and gives me his crooked yet very charming and still hauntingly familiar grin.
“So much truth in words, Ivy.”
Looking me over, he nods his head to the music and scoots closer. “Okay . . . why don’t you lay on your left side . . . the chair reclines back like a bed.” He flips a lever, leaning the chair back, then puts his hand on me and guides my leg slightly. “Is that comfortable for you, for now?” he asks.
I nod, a little flustered at his hand on my thigh. “Yes, it should be.”