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“Nervous?” The man looked up from behind the counter he’d walked behind.
Apparently, I wasn’t good at pretending I wasn’t a chicken. “Trying not to be,” I replied as he walked back toward the back of the parlor.
He waved me over and I followed him. He grabbed the design Frannie made, and when he asked me where I wanted it, I pulled my hair up, securing it, and pointed to the back of my neck. He ran his fingers over the skin.
“Don’t be nervous,” he said as he examined my neck.
From where I stood, I could see Dexter’s shadow. He hopped off the chair, following Frannie back toward us.
“Here’s his,” Frannie said.
I averted my eyes, knowing I wouldn’t want to see it until it was on him.
“Did you want him in here with you?” she asked me.
“As long as he doesn’t see what’s being done.” I lifted a brow, trying to seem daring when really, I was near pissing my pants.
“He can sit facing her,” the tattoo artist said and pointed behind me, ordering me to sit on what looked like a hospital bed—a black leather one.
I sat with my back toward the artist and facing Dexter, who’d pulled up a chair. I shivered as the man sprayed something on my skin and wiped it. He told me to drop my chin, and I felt him place something on the back of my neck—like paper. He pulled it from my skin and stepped away. He came back with two mirrors, one he held up and one he handed to me. I made sure Dexter wasn’t looking, and I checked it out.
Small and precise. What I wanted. I told him it was perfect, and I tipped my chin again, reaching for Dexter’s hands. The buzz of the tattoo machine didn’t scare me as much as it should have. I knew the mechanics and that it’d basically be stabbing me over and over. But when he began, and the sting was only an annoyance, I looked down at Dexter’s hands.
Some things were worth everything. The weight of his hands in mine, thrumming with his pulse, was worth it all.
Time passed quickly enough, and then the buzzing stopped altogether. The tattoo artist wiped at my skin, and I picked my head up to look at Dexter. His mouth moved, speaking silently, telling me I was amazing.
The tattoo artist handed me the mirror, and this time, Dexter looked, too.
The words were tidy and in a simple font that reminded me of a typewriter. Dexter said it aloud to himself and I smiled. He likely had no idea where I’d gotten the idea. To be honest, it had jumped in my mind almost of its own volition.
The old poem should have been written by the Angel of Death, with us in mind. It was either that or Rabindranath Tagore knew, as I’d learned, of soulmates and the like.
Dexter didn’t ask. The tattoo was bandaged, and I was given monotone instructions on how to care for it. Then it was Dexter’s turn.
When he took off his shirt, I began to experience that giddy feeling of realizing he was mine. He turned away as the design was pressed against his skin and when he lay flat on the leather, his eyes looked at mine. Without words, we were saying so much to each other.
He grabbed my hand loosely, and when the machine touched his skin, he didn’t flinch the way I was sure I had. Not much of a reaction from him. Finally, after torturing myself with my lack of patience, he sat up and turned to me. His left pectoral was an angry pink, and I read the words he’d chosen.
I didn’t stop my frown. “Huh?” I tipped my head to the side, inspecting the tattoo to make sure I was reading it right. “But, what does it mean?”
The tattoo artist stepped in between us, bandaging Dexter. I moved, desperate to be in his line of vision. I had to know.
“Soon,” he said as he kissed my forehead and moved past me, putting on his shirt and heading to the counter to pay.
I was still frowning when we stepped out into the night. It’d started snowing and Dexter cursed, bringing me closer. We made it all the way to my apartment, shaking off our coats and hanging them to dry before I asked.
“Does it mean I’m a prisoner?” I knew I always had been, and I knew Dexter was astute, but that wasn’t what I had in mind when I suggested tattoos. Something to remind me of how withdrawn I’d become? Certainly not.
“No. I used to think that about you in a sad way. That you seemed so free and exuberant, except beneath it you were weighed down by your fears. But now I think you’re a free spirit who’ll float away if I don’t keep you with me, where you so desperately wanted to be. So, that’s what it means. It means, even though you think you want to fly away, you don’t. You don’t want to die, Noa. And though you’ve come close, I hold onto you too tightly. Right next to my heart.”
Noa
Dexter turned away,heading toward the kitchen like he hadn’t taken what I thought was an insult and flipped it into the loveliest thing I’d ever heard.
He was onto me. He knew I was battling something. At times, I was on the losing end. Still, he loved me. I stalked after him. He was leaning against my counter when I found him making a pot of coffee. Always fucking coffee with the Andrews clan.
“Don’t you want to know what mine means?” I walked over, trying to remain aloof when I was actually freaking out. Words like those sounded like forever. And though I’d said I’d be around as long as I was alive, I would always be counting the hours, savoring each second, until Dexter left me again.
