About to give the show and tell I have prepared for every kid who comes in wanting their first tattoo, but also because I want to sidestep the whole older man younger woman thing for now.
If she rejected me, I don’t know if I’d get over it.
I’ve always just reached out and taken whatever it is I’ve wanted from life.
But Abby’s different. And the thought of inking her?
I won’t. I just couldn’t. But I can see her mind’s made up on that point at least.
Now I’m anti-tattoo, far from it. It’s my living, my art. Part of who I am as a man.
But when someone as young with such smooth pale skin as Abby comes along, my feelings aside, I have to give them both sides of the tattoo journey.
“Ink’s forever,” I start to explain, lifting my shirt to show her my first tattoo ever.
It's right next door to the faded three-inch knife wound scar between my ribs that I got as a souvenir from prison.
She gasps, gnawing at her lip.
Okay. Maybe lifting my shirt isn’t a great idea. I slide my shirt back down and opt for the folder on the counter.
The before and after book, as some clients call it.
“I don’t just apply ink. I can take it away too. But it’s a process and one that doesn’t always make folks happier,” I tell Abby, who seems lost, scanning my body again before she pretends to glance around the studio when I catch her.
“I mean that it’s not a pair of shoes or a phone app,” I say roughly. “A tattoo isn’t something you just ‘get’ because you think it’s cool,” I add a little less testily.
I have her attention, but is she even listening?
“I know, I know,” Abby says. Giving me the look I’ve seen thousands of times.
The same eyes and mouths that tell me six months down the road I shoulda warned them, shoulda told them that ink was for life.
But nobody wants to hear that.
Can’t say I didn’t tell ‘em. That’s my motto.
But with Abby it’s different. She’s not just some random client off the street.
She thumbs through the plastic sleeves of the folder.
With their permission, I’ve kept a visual diary of some of my client's tattoo removals. Some cases have follow-up plastic surgery images that were needed to erase everything, but there’s almost always a visible scar of some kind.
Always a reminder. Just as obvious as the ink itself to the owners.
Not something I’d want to be responsible for on someone as perfect and pure as Abby.
That’s the point I’m trying to make.
“Can I see the folders with what tattoos I can get?” she asks, turning down the side of her mouth, looking like she’s about to yawn.
“Did you even hear what I’ve said?” I ask sternly, wanting to shake her by the shoulders.
“I did,” she answers quickly, defiantly.
“It’s not a game, Abby. Someone as young as you… As fucking beautiful as…” I nearly shout but stop myself.
She’s turned red now, and I can see her lower lip quivering.
I hold my hands up in surrender, turning away from her while I pretend to check some equipment.
Collecting myself as I feel my hands shake for the first time in my life.
Kicking myself for not handling any of this better. Like an adult.
Like a man.
By the time I turn around and realize how much I crave, need, to look at her, she’s deep in thought. And not from what I’ve just told her. She’s found the art books and is scanning the images with renewed interest.
“I am nineteen,” she says looking up at me. Reminding me so much of Tasha with the same defiant attitude.
The same one I had when I was her age, only mine was a thousand times more in your face.
“And I’m forty-two and do this for a living,” I remind her with a slight smile, forcing myself to lighten up if I want her to even hear me out.
Abby nods as she takes that on board. Grumbling with resignation I lean over her and reach for a much better catalog of images to choose from.
“Nothing too big is always my advice for first-timers,” I explain, noticing the choice of words as well as their effect on her.
Feeling myself swell inside and out when her eyes move down to my groin.
“Did you mean what you said?” she asks, catching me off-guard. “About me being beautiful?”
I swallow hard, looking at my feet for a second, figuring if I’ve come this far I may as well at least test the water.
“Yeah. I mean yes I mean it,” I rasp, shooting her an intense look that I hope conveys the true gravity, the depth of my feelings.
Not just some off-the-cuff remark about her being pretty.
“Then where do you think is best?” she asks, her voice getting a little smoky as she chews on her lip again.