I rushed down the street, the autumn wind whipping my hair and tossing my dress, my high heeled boots clicking on the brick sidewalk. I pulled open the door just as I heard her say, "Oh thank God you are here, you know I can't make a decision on my own."
The cute tattoo man looked like he was ready to strangle her. She took the drawings out of his hand, handed them to me and said, "Look at those while you are looking at my ankle -- I know you can do two things at once." I looked at her ankle, the smooth skin and looked at the tattoo artist's drawings. I choose the picture in the middle -- the one of the roses intertwined with thorns.
"This one!" I said, and handed the sketch to the tattoo man. "Finally." he said, sounding exhausted before he had even begun the tattoo. We were the only two clients in the tattoo shop, and he was the only artist. The only interruption was the tattoo artist's girlfriend, a college student from the looks of her, who breezed in to remind him they were meeting friends as soon as he was finished with us. The bar where they were to meet was directly across the street from the shop and he said he would be over in an hour or so.
Sam and I have been best friends since grade school. We are now in our thirties, married with kids and white picket fence lives. The tattoo was Sam's big rebellion for the year.
For the next hour and a half I watched while he worked. I held her hand, noticing his arm muscles flexing as he worked, her skirt as it lay across her thighs. The artist didn't say much, worked until his creation was finished. She stood and walked across the room to look in the mirror. I started to get my stuff together to leave, we might still have enough time to run to the bar ourselves for a drink. I heard them talking behind me but I wasn't paying attention to what was being said.
I turned as she rushed over to me. "Linda, I don't have enough money?! I misunderstood the price when I had called him. What am I going to do?" she said in a pleading voice.
Sam doesn't have an ATM card like normal people and the shop did not have a credit card machine.
The tattoo artist must have been listening as he was shutting off the lights, turning on his answering machine. As we turned to face him he was taking off his shirt and sliding into a fresh button down shirt. Sam and I stared at his tight abs and amazing chest as he walked to the front door and locked it. The whole time with the shirt open. "You didn't bring money?" he said with a smirk on his face.
