Grace Ch 03 1

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*****

"So tell me about yourself." Richard sits back, smiling, as if he is settling in for a long conversation.

I don't know what he is expecting. I've always been terribly shy. We sit face to face in the booth of a beautiful but quiet Italian place, waiting for our respective pastas. That means there's plenty of time for small talk, my least favorite thing. And, if I recall, Richard mentioned he didn't like small talk either. I decide to play alone, hoping he'll bore of it quickly enough.

"I mean, I've never been particularly into talking about myself, which I guess suits me fine. I'm not great at social interactions, so it works out."

He nods, nonjudgmentally. "What are you into then?"

I smile at his persistence. "Art. Sketching and-"

"-painting," he interrupts.

"How'd you know?"

He reaches out and delicately lifts my hand into his and turns it over. I instantly feel as if I am some small animal in his grasp, his hands are so large. "Dried acrylic under your fingernails. Where did you study?"

I stare up into his green eyes, a little taken aback. How did he notice such a small detail? And how'd he know that I'd studied at all. He sits patiently, as if he expected this moment of disbelief from me. I compose myself and answer.

"I have a degree in Fine Art from Elon. I just graduated this year."

"Oh, excellent!" He looks genuinely excited. "My son recently did a class project on Elon University. They are the Phoenixes, right?"

"Right! And, you have a son?"

"Oh, yes, Emmett is in eighth grade." He pulls out his phone and flashes me his lock screen photo, the sweet face of a boy with a big smile and tussled hair.

And suddenly he asks, "Do you have a pen?"

Confused, I rummage through my purse and hand him one. Then I watch as he carefully lays out a napkin and the pen in front of me.

"Can you draw me a phoenix, please?"

"What!?" There is no way Richard is actually asking me to draw for him. I struggle sharing my art with even my closest friends, even Nicole, and I barely know this man. Still, some deep feeling urges me to pick up the pen and just do it anyway. "I can't."

"Sure you can," he protests, "You said you're not into talking about yourself, so share yourself with me this way instead."

I stare at the napkin, then at Richard, who sits ever calmly and patiently, as if he could wait for my decision for hours. The urge to draw for him grows, fighting against my anxiety. I've never felt this before, this war within myself to be so vulnerable with someone so new. What is it about him that makes me want to please him?

I grab the pen on instinct and hover it over the napkin, not my favorite medium, and picture the phoenix. Richard doesn't know that he's asked me to draw something I've drawn dozens of times before. Or maybe he does. Perhaps I ought to stop underestimating what he has perceived about me.

Before I have time to second guess myself, I am laying down sweeping blue lines on the paper napkin, shaping them into a modern and stylized phoenix that curves upward, wings extended, and under it a dancing fire. It looks victorious. I improvise some shading on the bird and then look up.

Richard stares, impressed, at my work. "That is incredible, Grace. You've drawn that before haven't you?"

"Yes, how did you know?" I laugh. I knew it.

"Just the way you executed the drawing so smoothly and quickly. So tell me why you've draw the same thing multiple times."

"Oh? I...well," I stammer. Should I tell him the truth? I feel the same tug in my gut that told me to draw for him, telling me that I should and I decide to listen once again. "I actually sometimes think about...if I ever got a tattoo one day. It would be that.

"When is one day?"

God, it feels like he Is pushing every button in me.

"How should I know?"

"Well then let's make it today."

I'm sure I've heard him wrong this time. The very idea of getting a tattoo today makes me laugh out loud.

"You're crazy," I laugh.

"Give me all the reasons you shouldn't get that tattoo today."

"Okay," I bite, deciding to play along, "For one, tattoos last forever."

"That's why one should spend a good amount of time considering their design and placement. I bet you've known exactly where you want that thing for years."

And he's caught me. He's absolutely right. I've wanted this exact phoenix on m

y left shoulder blade for about three years now. I've just never had the courage to go and actually do it.

"Well," I add. "also, tattoos hurt."

He raises and eyebrow at me. "Are you seriously telling me, Grace, that you're putting your dream and your art on hold because you're scared of a little pain?"

"What if I jump and ruin it!" I argue.

"You won't. You just need to learn to process it. I can teach you. Trust me."

And that same deep gut feeling, and the richness of his voice sing to me that trusting him might just be a good idea.

"Have you ever been inside of a tattoo studio though?" he asks.

"Of course not!"

"Well, I think now is a great time for us to conquer that fear, Miss Grace."

"I'm not getting a tattoo today."

"That's fair. But you'll be better prepared for 'one day' if you've actually looked through some portfolios."

I can't argue there, and I am curious. Plus I'd probably never go into a tattoo studio on my own so having someone who wants to accompany me is a great opportunity.

"Okay. I accept. We can go. But I am not getting a tattoo."

He laughs. "Would you like to drive or shall I?"

-

The tattoo studio is a beacon of light on an otherwise dead street. The fact that is it open at half past midnight makes it seem sketchy, but I'm probably just on edge because I'm sitting outside of a house of needles in the car of someone who is essentially a stranger. And, anyway, why do I feel that Richard is more than just a stranger? Am I attracted to someone who must be over fifteen years my senior? And, if so, why does this feel so different than a crush?

I shake off the questions when I hear his car door open. Richard walks around and opens my door for me. I fumble with the seatbelt and clutch my over-the-shoulder bag up into my arms and stand at his side. I'd decided on the car ride over that I would definitely go inside and peruse the portfolios. Richard had a point, after all, I need to choose a reputable artist eventually. And that should be painless.

"This place is called Sensations and it's the best spot in town," he begins as he leads the way across the cobblestone sidewalk, "but I should warn you that they know me here."

Before I can start to question how exactly they know him, as I didn't notice any visible tattoos on the man, We're inside.

"Rick!" A heavyset man at the front counter exclaims joyfully. "Good to see ya, man. But Sky's here. Thought you weren't on tonight."

"Then you're doing your job right," Richard winks at the man, "I'm not. I'm here to show a client the portfolios. Both of them please."

"Is that Rick?" calls a deep woman's voice, "tell him to fuck off."

The woman appears and she and Rick hug each other for a little longer than I'm used to.

"Good evening to you too, Sky," Richard replies coolly and they chuckle.

My mind ever full of questions is even more confused. Richard wasn't lying. They really do seem to know him, and even better than I'd imagined.

The man comes out from behind the counter and heads in my direction with two large binders in hand.

"Hi miss, I'm Kevin. Please have a seat."

I do. The seating area is plush and modern. This entire place is surprisingly clean and beautiful. The walls are bright white and black pillars accent the room. Huge grayscale photos of some of the most stunning tattoos I've ever seen decorate the walls. Maybe I really will find my future artist here.

Kevin hands me the black binder first and I flip through it. The tattoos are very good but they're not the masterpieces on the wall. I can tell this artist likes to do tattoos of cartoons. Many of the designs are exaggerated, bulging-eyed creatures that look that they were dreamed up by children but drawn by a true artist.

My favorite design is an overgrown caterpillar barely floating above the ground on tiny butterfly wings. That's how I feel some days, like I'm so huge and weighed down by worry that I can barely keep on flying. I linger on that caterpillar before finishing the portfolio and reaching out towards Kevin for the second one.

In the red binder, I believe I've found the artist behind the framed tattoos. The photos in this book are breathtaking. Each tattoo seems to jump right off the page at me. I linger on the ones where the ink mimics the stroke of a paintbrush so flawlessly that a question if they are tattoos at all. That's exactly how I want my phoenix.

"Who did these?" I ask, looking up at Kevin.

Richard steps out from behind him and holds up his hands, "guilty"

I stare at him, disbelieving. "What do you mean?"

"That's my portfolio," he explains, "Sensations is my studio."

"Why didn't you tell me you were a tattoo artist?" I ask.

"Why didn't you ask?"

I grunt at this and he laughs at me.

"Seriously," I add, "Your work is amazing. And this place is so beautiful. I'd love to get my tattoo here."

"This dudes got a waiting list a year long, kid," says Sky, who has been standing with her hip out watching this whole exchange with amusement.

"Be nice," argues Kevin, "She's clearly a close friend. They're probably here to do it tonight."

Sky sighs and goes back to the back room that she first came from. I stare up at Kevin.

"We're not...did she say a year?"

Kevin frowns. "Unfortunately, yeah. Rick here is pretty well renowned.

"Richard?" I say, standing, "Can...Can we do it tonight."

-

I in sitting in the cushioned tattoo chair in the other back room. It's just me and Richard. I can feel my heart beginning to race at the thought of being pierced by tattoo needles. But Richard has redrawn the sketch from my napkin exactly how I dreamed it to be and placed the outline on my arm in just the right place.

"I'm going to help you relax, but you need to trust me."

I nod, trying to ignore the wave of fear passing through me.

"Close your eyes."

"You better not tattoo me with my eyes closed, I swear."

"I promise," Richard raises his hands in the air innocently.

I hesitantly close my eyes.

"Now turn your hands and open your palms."

I do.

He continues, his voice soothing and his words meditative, "This is a posture of acceptance. For the next hour or so you're going to have the opportunity to practice accepting sensation. Pain is simply what we name sensations that we don't want to accept. But when you call the sensations what they are, you'll feel the mild scratching or burning but you won't suffer them. Do you understand, Grace?"

"I'm trying to."

Everything Richard says sounds wonderful in theory, practicing acceptance to overcome pain and stuff, but how do you actually do it?

"Open your eyes."

Richard sits by my side, his tray and tattoo gun set up next to the stencil on my right forearm. I jerk back a little, then relax as I remember what Richard was just saying about acceptance.

"Focus on your breath," he instructs, "On the inhale, name the sensations in your mind. On the exhale, feel them float and fly over your body as you release them."

"Okay," I respond, my voice shaky.

"Ready for the first line?" The hum of the tattoo gun starts and I nod, beginning to breathe deep into my belly.

My mouth drops open in shock as the needle hits my skin. I breathe deep and notice that it is warm and stingy but not unbearable. I try to release the sensation on my exhale as Richard instructed but it doesn't seem to work. Still, I'm getting the hang of at least the first part of what he said. I keep up my breathing and naming practice. The feeling gets hotter, scratchier, and then instantly cool when he wipes the skin clean. It's such a welcome pleasure that I find myself beaming each time he does it.

"You are doing such a good job at your mindfulness practice, Grace," he comments.

"My what?"

"You're really staying in the moment with me."

"Thank you" I smile wider.

The needle touched my skin again and I surprise both of us when I laugh!

"It tickeled!" I explain quickly, a blush tinting my cheeks, and he chuckles.

I sigh with the last few strokes of the needle, no longer feeling anything that could possibly register as pain. I'm totally immersed in the smooth movement of the gun and how it almost feels like ripples of pleasure running up and down my arm.

"You are a special girl, Grace. Thank you for allowing me to tattoo you."

He begins to clean and wrap the fresh tattoo. The phoenix is black and brilliant, even more radiant than the outline. Better than any of the designs I drew myself.

"Thank you! But I have a question. I've always heard that tattoos hurt a lot. So how did you make it not hurt?"

"I didn't, Grace," he says, "You did."