“Welcome to Tattoo Paradise,” said a young man in a stocking cap, pierced everywhere and covered with ink himself, like any cliché tattoo artist. For the life of her, Cheri couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to wear a winter hat at the tail end of a very hot and muggy summer. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“You have?” Cheri asked, a bit startled. She felt as if she was walking through a vat of Jell-O as she moved to take her place in a chair.
“Step over here, sweetheart,” Thomas said, patting a space that looked a lot like a massage table.
Cheri shifted over to it and allowed Thomas to maneuver her however he wanted. He removed her denim jacket and encouraged her to lie back. He touched her ankle, with the tattoo artist looking on like a surgeon in a consultation. “I was thinking right here,” said Thomas.
The artist nodded, and a slight smile curled his lips.
For a moment, she wondered if the artist was anywhere as inebriated as she was, and that alone made her even more hesitant. She was awake but out of it, though, so she didn’t bother expending any of her consciousness or energy on putting up any resistance. A tiny little Harley on my ankle? So be it. She relaxed on the table and felt the coldness of the alcohol swab, then the strange pressure of a razor against her skin there. Did Thomas say he wanted it somewhere only she, he and the doctor could see? This’ll work for me.
“I know you’re smooth as silk, baby, but we need a pristine surface for the ink,” Thomas explained.
“We?” asked Cheri. “Are you micromanaging my tattoo?”
“I am,” he said with a smirk.
He was so, so handsome, and even in her weakened and distracted state, she found herself gazing at him with intense adoration. There were a few more steps to the tattoo process that she was not even aware of, but she paid no attention to them, as she was far too busy just staring at him.
Then came the part that Cheri was not quite prepared for, the part that hurt “like a bitch,” as the artist so tastefully phrased it. Thomas had chosen the worst possible place for the tattoo; everyone’s ankles were sensitive, but Cheri’s especially so.
She braced herself and pressed her face against the surface of the table, not caring how many different strands of DNA were already there from wayward saliva and mouth prints. For the first minute or so, Cheri thought she was going to pass out, but Thomas’s deep voice rumbled in his chest with laughter.
“Wh-Why am I doing this?” she stuttered, but her mind somehow found a way to blot out the pain.
Both the artist and Thomas kept assuring her that they were almost done, but those promises seemed to stretch into an eternity of agony.
“It’s such a small graphic,” said the artist. “There’s some risk that it’ll eventually get muddy. You gotta keep perfectly still.”
“Do you have any whisky?” pleaded Cheri, knowing full well that after two shots of tequila and a couple sips of absinthe, she still wanted booze. Realizing it probably didn’t sound quite right, she quickly changed her request. “Actually, a massage will do. Tomorrow night, Thomas,” she said, “massages for both of us.”
“Anything you want,” Thomas promised.
“Done,” announced the artist.
“The first and last ink I’ll ever get,” said Cheri sternly.
Thomas belly-laughed. “We all say that.” He then pulled out his wallet and paid the artist in cash.
The artist fiddled with the cuff of her pants to keep it from smudging his work. “It’d be best if we could cut these a bit shorter,” he said.
“No way!” protested Cheri.
Thomas stopped and examined the situation. “Do it,” he said. “I’ll buy you all the jeans you want.”
“But these fit me so well.”
“Yes, they certainly do,” Thomas said, practically in a purr, “and they’ll look magnificent as shorts.”
“Don’t worry. I’m good at this, too,” said the artist, holding a straight razor that looked like a psychotic barber’s instrument. “Just please don’t move.”
“But I—” she tried to protest.
“It’s fine, baby,” Thomas said, clutching her hand for support.
The artist proceeded to cut the jeans into shorts while she was wearing them.
“A work of art times two,” Thomas said, slipping him more cash for the extra work.
“I don’t know, man,” said the artist. “She makes the jeans, not me.”
“I’d have to agree with you there,” said Thomas.
Cheri’s head cleared as she realized the tattoo work was done. “Wow,” she said, “that was quite an adventure.”
“Yes, it was,” Thomas laughed. “Best night I’ve had in a long time. How about we go for dessert?”
“I’m not sure I’m up for, um…that.”
He laughed. “I mean real dessert, like coffee and ice cream, as delightful as that sounds.”
“Oh,” she said, climbing up on a Windsor chair so she was at the right height to kiss him. “Coffee and ice cream sound good,” she said, pulling away.
At that point, the tattoo artist/makeshift fashion designer ducked out to wash his hands.
Another customer entered the parlor, but Cheri didn’t stop. She gladly reacquainted herself with the sweet, wet warmth of his mouth. “Yes,” she said, “the lady will gladly have coffee, pie, and ice cream.”