by Claire Adams
There was dinner and drinks. There was the club, later, and another glass of wine, which I hadn’t finished. There was the loud, throbbing music, a feeling of giddiness that I hadn’t experienced before. Then, a little bit later, Tara whispering to me that she’d just had the best idea and we needed to leave. We’d gone to a tattoo parlor. And the guy there said he wouldn’t give either of us tattoos, which, for some reason, bothered me more than it probably should have.
His logic for saying no made sense, after all. If anything, it showed that he took his profession seriously. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was that talk that I’d had with my parents earlier, but I had found myself wanting a tattoo more than anything. Nothing that big, and certainly not in a place that couldn’t be easily covered up by clothes—it would be like my own, little secret, something that my parents would probably flip out over if they knew, but they wouldn’t ever have to know.
Before I lost my nerve, I got dressed and headed back down to the tattoo place.
*****
I didn’t let myself think about it as I drove, and I didn’t stop to think about it when I parked and walked in. “Hey,” I said, realizing that maybe it hadn’t been the smartest idea not to at least think of what to say beyond hey, because I had no idea. I felt shy, suddenly, as I always seemed to around good-looking guys. He was especially handsome though, with his beard and short, tousled hair. His eyes were dark blue, like the color of washed denim, and even though he was physically imposing, there was a kindness in his eyes that put me a little more at ease. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was here last night with my friend.”
He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Chloe, right?”
I returned his smile, pleased that he had remembered my name. “Right,” I said. “And I’m not drunk.”
There was a pause and I felt my face start to flush again. I had meant that last part to come out sounding lighthearted, joking, but it sounded more like a proposition, or maybe a threat.
He looked at the clock on the wall behind me. “Seeing as it’s one-thirty in the afternoon, I’d say that’s a good thing.”
“Yeah. So ... I would like to get a tattoo. Something simple, and small. I like flowers a lot. I know that’s kind of a cliché, but I don’t want something that’s totally wacky just for the sake of being different. And ... yeah. ”
He leaned across the counter and was doodling something in a sketchbook as I talked. I realized how vague I was sounding, but I was having difficulty describing what it was I wanted. It was as though I could see it in my mind but couldn’t adequately explain it with words.
“And I’m thinking it might have to be somewhere that isn’t visible. I don’t want one on my lower back, because I’d actually like to be able to see it myself, so maybe ... well ... where would you say people usually get them when they want to be able to hide it?”
He stopped drawing and straightened. “There’s a lot of places, actually, it really just depends on what your preference is. Bottom of your foot, back of your neck—if you wear your hair down—between your fingers, ribcage, upper thigh. ” He spun the sketchpad toward me. “Something like that?”
I looked down at what he’d drawn and felt my breath catch in my throat. How long had he spent doing that? Two minutes? Less? He’d rendered, in perfect, thin, black lines of ink, a delicate stem with ten or eleven offshoots of poppy blooms. It was minimalist and simple, but also stunningly beautiful.
“That’s exactly what I wanted,” I said. I looked up at him. “How did you know?” I realized I sounded like an awestruck fan girl, but it really was like he’d somehow managed to access the part of my brain that knew what the tattoo was supposed to look like, even when I myself couldn’t articulate it.
He shrugged. “That was just the first thing that came to mind after you described what you wanted.”
Now it was just a matter of figuring out where it should go. I didn’t want it on the bottom of my foot, and though it was small, it was too big to go between my fingers. Plus, I didn’t know how long the recovery time would be or what exactly it would be like, and I needed both my hands to start working on my sculpture. The back of the neck might be okay, but then I would only be able to see it if I looked in the mirror. It was such a pretty image that I wanted to be able to look at it easily. And, I wanted other people to be able to see it, too.
“Here,” I said, touching my inner forearm right below the elbow crease. “I want it right here.”
“That’s a good placement,” he said. “But you’re going to have to wear long sleeves all the time if you want to keep it hidden.”
I shook my head. “I think I changed my mind about that. I don’t actually want to keep it hidden.”
He regarded me, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying not to laugh. I felt myself start to blush. Yes, I was coming across as a fool who didn’t actually know what she wanted, but so what? Really, I was feeling proud of myself for coming down here alone to begin with. For someone like Tara, it wouldn’t even be a thing, but for me ... this was actually a big deal.
“Are you about to laugh at me?” I asked. “Because I’m not actually trying to be funny.”
“I’m not going to laugh at you,” he said, in such a way that made me believe him. “But, I am curious—who are you trying to hide this tattoo from?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to say my parents, because that made me sound like a teenager. Which I wasn’t, so it wasn’t as though my parents could actually do anything to me anyway.
“It’s something my parents probably won’t be too thrilled about,” I said. “Not that it matters, though, because I’m twenty-one. I’m just ... I’m just staying with them this summer, so I’ll be seeing them more than during the school year.”
“You’re in school?”
“Yeah. Art school. Which, according to my parents, isn’t really school and I’m wasting my time.”
He leaned across the counter again and looked at me with those deep, blue eyes. “So, is this tattoo more about being rebellious? Which is totally fine, if it is. People do that.”
“No. Yes. Well, I don’t know!” And I really didn’t. Would I be here right now if my parents hadn’t made me feel like such shit about being in art school? Probably not. I’d probably be dutifully working on my sculpture, completely ignorant and blissful about how excited my parents would be that I had something that was going to be in an art exhibition.
“I’ve been doing a lot of hand-poked tattoos lately,” he said. “And this will come out really nicely if I do it that way.”
“Okay,” I said. “But ... excuse my ignorance, what is that?”
“I’m not going to use the mechanical gun. It’s a bit of a slower process, but I’ve come to like it a lot better. And it’s perfect for something like this. A hand poked tattoo is usually made up of a lot of lines, dots, negative space. This will come out really nice.”
“Sure,” I said. “That sounds great.” I had no idea what he was talking about, to be completely honest, but I didn’t want to tell him that. “I’m ready.”
He smiled. “Okay. Let’s get started. Well, I’m going to need to see some I.D. first.”
If I were Tara, I’d say something coy about looking like I was over eighteen, but I just fumbled in my purse for my wallet and extracted my driver’s license. “Here you go.” I also decided against saying something how it was the worst picture ever, even though I was pretty sure that it was.
He looked at it, then looked at me, then looked back down at the picture. It took me a second to catch on, but then I laughed. “It really is me,” I said.
He winked as he handed it back to me. “I’m Graham, by the way; I don’t think I ever actually introduced myself. You ready to do this?”
I put my I.D. back in my wallet and took a deep breath. If I stopped to think about it for too long, I was probably going to chicken out. “I’m ready.”
It ended up hurting less than I expected, mostly, except in a few plac
es where it actually hurt more. I bit the inside of my cheek and winced a little, but the pain never got so bad that I didn’t think I’d be able to handle it.
“You’re doing great,” he said. He had purple latex gloves on, but I could still feel the warmth of his hands on my bare skin.
“It feels ... different than I was expecting.” I was glad there wasn’t really any blood. “It doesn’t really hurt that much.”
“It’s funny—I’ve had guys in here, these big, total jock-type dudes, and they’ve been in tears before I’m even halfway done. You know, they look like the sort of guys that could crush bricks with their skulls or something, but they are literally begging me to hurry up and get it over with.” He smiled a little and shook his head. “And then someone like you who can handle it like it’s not even a thing.”
“It kind of isn’t,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty small compared to some of the stuff you’ve done, I bet.”
“You’re right—it’s not the biggest thing I’ve ever worked on, but it doesn’t really make a difference to me. I want every piece to come out looking awesome.”
“I know what you mean. There were some kids in art school that were only interested in working on the really big projects, the ones that they thought might have a chance getting into the show at the end of the year. So they wouldn’t give enough time to the smaller assignments we had, and in the end, it usually wound up backfiring because their bigger projects wound up lacking depth. Or that’s what one of the professors said, anyway.”
“Well, he’s right. So you’re in art school?”
“Yeah. I’m actually going to be in an exhibition at the end of this summer.”
“No shit? That’s great.”
“It is, except I’m kind of struggling with what the sculpture’s going to be, and then how I’m actually going to pull it off. I want it to be really good.”
“Of course you do, especially if it’s going to be on public display. I could give you a hand, if you want.”
“Really? That would be great.”
I think we were both surprised; I was surprised he had offered to help and he was surprised that I had accepted the offer. But I could tell he was a talented artist. And there was some part of me that just wanted to hang out with him. “Do you want to meet me at the Bennet Center for the Arts? That’s where I’m going to be working out of.”
“I’d be happy to,” he said. He wiped gently at my arm. “What do you think?”
I looked down, not expecting the tattoo to be finished so quickly, but it was. And it looked so perfect there on my arm that my breath caught in my throat. It was even more beautiful on skin than it had been on paper. I looked at him, unable to keep the grin from spreading on my face.
“I love it,” I said.
7.
Graham
I was surprised that girl, Chloe, had come back. Pleasantly surprised, I admit, though I reminded myself about my resolution to not hook up with anyone this summer. And honestly, I hadn’t expected to see her again, except then she mentioned her sculpture project and I offered to help, which had totally come out of left field. I could have stood her up or come up with some excuse not to go, but in the end, I decided to meet up with her, because I had nothing better to do and because there was something about her that I found intriguing.
I went down to the Bennet Center for the Arts, where she said she’d be working. Ah, art school. I might’ve toyed with the idea of attending art school myself at one point, though I shelved it quickly after realizing how expensive schools like that were. I probably could have qualified for some sort of financial aid, but it would be a huge headache, because I knew I’d need my mother and Wade’s information as well. I also knew I didn’t need to pay thirty thousand dollars a year to learn about art.
I’d never been to the Bennet Center before, though I’d certainly driven by it plenty of times. It was actually a lot bigger than I realized; from the road, you could see a modest-looking, renovated, Cape-style home that I thought made up the whole place; in reality, though, there was a connecting archway off the back of the house that attached it to a long, barn-like structure where the studios and performing spaces were located.
There were several people hanging out on the porch, artist types with wild hair and Birkenstocks, paint-stained smocks. They watched me approach but didn’t say anything, and then after I’d passed by, they went back to their conversation. I went inside and found myself in a high-ceilinged lobby with artwork adorning the walls. There were leather armchairs set up in groups of four and on the far wall was a table with muffins, donuts, and several coffee carafes. I went over and poured myself a cup, and when I turned back around, Chloe was walking through the door.
“Hey,” she said.
The coffee was scalding hot and burned the tip of my tongue. “Ouch,” I said. “I mean, hey. How’s it going?”
“Good. Sorry I’m a little late. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, just got here, checking things out.”
“Have you been here before?”
“No. I don’t usually hang out with artists.”
The group of people that had been outside came back in and walked past us, talking about the continuum of bas relief techniques.
Chloe looked at me and grinned. “Yeah, some of the people around here take themselves a little bit too seriously. Come on, the studio I’m working in is down here.”
I followed her down a long hallway. “How’s the arm?”
She was wearing a three-quarter sleeve cardigan, which she pushed back to reveal the tattoo, which was almost healed and looked quite nice.
“It came out so good,” she said. “I love it.”
I smiled, feeling that familiar sense of happy pride I always felt whenever I saw my work out in the world. The feeling never got old; I guessed it was similar to the way a parent must feel seeing their kid score the winning point. “What about your parents? Do they love it, too?”
“It would seem the weather gods are on my side,” she said. “It’s been mild enough that I’ve been able to get away wearing longer sleeves. Plus, I get cold easily, so I haven’t really been arousing any suspicion.” We went into one of the studios, which was a large room with big windows. There was a table set up in the middle, and several easels pushed into the corner. A counter and sink were against the far wall and opposite that was a big cupboard that housed all the supplies.
“So, the show is at the end of August,” Chloe said. “I’ve got some ideas, but I haven’t decided on anything yet. That always seems to be my problem—whenever I have a project to do, I have okay ideas, but nothing spectacular. And I’d really like to come up with something spectacular, because this is the first show that I’ve been in that wasn’t held by the school. Also ...” she paused, and I could tell she was debating whether or not she wanted to actually tell me whatever it was she was about to say. “My parents think that I shouldn’t be pursuing art as a career, and I’d like to prove them wrong. I’d like to show them that I actually do have talent and that I haven’t just been wasting my time at art school.” She looked at me. “Were your parents always supportive of your art? I mean, you’re obviously really successful.”
I stifled a laugh. “No, I wouldn’t say that my parents were supportive of my art at all.”
“I’m sorry. It sucks, doesn’t it? It’s really shitty to be passionate about something and then have your parents just kind of shit all over it.”
“It does, but I think it also just makes you work harder for it. Kind of like you’re doing now, you know? You want to prove your parents wrong, so you’re going to make this wicked-dope sculpture. Maybe if your parents were more supportive of it, you wouldn’t feel the motivation to work so hard. That’s how it was for me, anyway.”
She was quiet for a moment and then nodded slowly, a smile spreading across her face. She had a dimple on her left cheek. “When you put it that way, it really doesn’t sound so awful. Almost like it’s a good t
hing!”
We sat at the table and she pulled her sketchbook from her bag. “I didn’t really even need to come into the studio today; I’m not going to start working with the clay until I at least get some sort of sketch down,” she said. “But sometimes places like this give me inspiration.”
We spent the next few hours talking about art and doodling in her sketchbook. I was surprised when I looked at the clock to see how much time had gone by.
“Shit,” I said. “I better get going; I need to go open the shop.”
We walked out to the parking lot. Her car was parked just a few spots over from my truck.
“Thanks so much for helping me,” she said.
“It’s no problem, though I really didn’t do anything.”
“No, you did. Just having someone to talk to and share ideas with is really helpful.”
We weren’t standing that far apart from each other; less than an arm’s length. It would have been oh-so easy to just lean down and kiss her, which is exactly what I wanted to do. And the way her head was tilted back just a little, looking up at me, it seemed pretty clear that she wouldn’t have minded it either.
But I knew where that would lead, and seeing as not even a week had passed since that conversation with my mother—who had been so adamant that there was no way in hell I’d be able to go the whole summer without hooking up with someone—I took a big step back and reached over to yank the door of my truck open.
“All right,” I said briskly. “I had a good time, thanks.” It would be best to just get out of there as fast as I could. Not that I was unable to control myself, but making a hasty exit seemed the only way to ensure that nothing would happen right now.
“Oh, um ... okay. Sure. Thanks again.”
My exit wasn’t quick enough that I was able to miss the look of confusion that flashed across Chloe’s face, though she did a good job at disguising it. I felt something close to anxiety as I started the truck and took off, sticking my arm out the window to wave at her but not bothering to look again. What the fuck? I chalked the anxious feeling up to my psyche simply not being used to being denied what it wanted. I wouldn’t classify myself as a hedonist, but I’d always had good luck when it came to women and until today, I’d never not allowed myself to explore my carnal urges.