The visitors were all ages...clearly no younger than eighteen or nineteen...but he was amazed at the diversity. And he was amazed at the pairings...couples, twosomes, trios...sometimes though a soloist. It was those folks that he wondered mostly about as they disappeared inside. Only to return with a new skin.
He got up and walked away, unconvinced.
Two days later, he found himself in the same place. It was fresh from a rain, puddles silvery and shimmering, the sky in bruises of gray and blue. Everything seemed a bit muted.
He assumed his usual position on the bench. There weren't many coming or going. Which is probably the main reason she walked out.
She was waifish, with hair colored in blondes and browns. One eyebrow had been plucked in intervals, giving it a lightning bolt effect. She was exceptionally pale, except for the left arm colored in bright scarlets and soft blues, a weave of flowers, birds and thorns. On her wrists were scripts. Her jeans were very tight and she wore a flowing men's v-neck tee-shirt. Above her collar-bones were two delicate wings.
She was disturbingly pretty.
You a cop? she asked, knowing full well the answer but putting her hands on her hips and standing above him. She smelled slightly of faint lilacs and a bit of ink. Her waist was at his eye level and he wondered what other ink she wore.
He laughed. No, I'm definitely not a cop.
Well you standing out here all the time is making me wonder.
I'm not standing.
Her eyes dimmed a bit...she had very pale blue eyes.
Are you a fucking loiterer?
He stood up and he was a head taller than her.
No...I'm and trailed off. He didn't expect to be this intrigued by her. He had never seen her so he was absorbing and calculating at the same time.
I was thinking of coming in actually. You know, thinking about getting a tattoo.
She pulled a cigarette out of her back pocket and then pulled out a Bic lighter. She inhaled it as it burned, and when she spoke she held the cigarette in her mouth, moving up and down with her voice.
You don't want a tattoo.
I don't?
If you did you'd be in there.
Not necessarily. I'm kind of taking it one step at a time.
She blew some smoke at him...for some reason he found it very attractive. And then she sat down.
Seems to me like you're not taking any fucking steps. She inhaled again, and looked at her fingernails. They were painted in a light green color.
She exhaled and the smoke plumed around her. He absorbed the silence, glanced carefully at her arms and her colors...when she moved the colors moved and he realized it was like watching a moving canvass.
You're staring.
I'm sorry...I just haven't had a chance to see somebody this close.
What do you mean? Like a female?
He laughed. Given our start I'm sure you'd come to that conclusion. No. I just haven't seen somebody as attractive as you mixed with this many tattoos. That's all.
She nodded in a careless way, having heard it all before. She inhaled again and when she spoke the smoke streamed out. Well there are a bunch of us.
I never knew. Thus...the staring.
You should visit the internet once in awhile.
Ha. I guess I'll start amending my search patterns.
She stood up, flicked her cigarette down the sidewalk and turned to him.
Fair is all she said, sticking out her hand.
Fair? Uhm, okay, fair enough.
No. My name is fair.
Oh. Like...a cab?
No. Like the county.
Ah...interesting.
He shook her hand.
Come see me sometime.
Maybe I will.
2 weeks later he did. But not to get a tattoo.
If you're not going to get inked why are you here?
He stood in the large room, art on the walls, sheets of paper strewn about. Colors and ink, needles and cotton, rubber gloves...it was a mix between an art gallery and an emergency room.
I don't know...I found myself in the neighborhood. I thought I'd stop in.
Well it's a big step for you. Maybe we have a lollipop somewhere. She was head's down, working on a drawing.
He had a thought in his head as she leaned over, the colors different under the brighter lights of the studio. He always thought that the tattoo was the art, but in her case it combined her pale skin as the greater canvass and she herself, in the totality, was the piece of art. Her bare spots were just as beautiful as the colored ones. And like a work in progress she was going to be different tomorrow than today. And he wanted to share with her how he found it intriguing...fucking interesting...just to be near her. Near her movements, near her green fingernails that gripped the pencil, near the mixed scents of her perfume and cigarette smoke. She moved dangerously, with a mouth to cut and a wit to bludgeon, perfect in her imperfections and bold in her display. She almost dared him to take action. And that, he knew,was why he didn't.
Come back and see me when you're ready. Her voice was low and she didn't look up.
Maybe I will. Fair.
He took a last snapshot with his mind and inhaled so he could remember this place as he departed. He was already thinking of a place to get inked as he walked out the door and into the suddenly boring light of the afternoon.
You're staring.
I'm sorry...I just haven't had a chance to see somebody this close.
What do you mean? Like a female?
He laughed. Given our start I'm sure you'd come to that conclusion. No. I just haven't seen somebody as attractive as you mixed with this many tattoos. That's all.
She nodded in a careless way, having heard it all before. She inhaled again and when she spoke the smoke streamed out. Well there are a bunch of us.
I never knew. Thus...the staring.
You should visit the internet once in awhile.
Ha. I guess I'll start amending my search patterns.
She stood up, flicked her cigarette down the sidewalk and turned to him.
Fair is all she said, sticking out her hand.
Fair? Uhm, okay, fair enough.
No. My name is fair.
Oh. Like...a cab?
No. Like the county.
Ah...interesting.
He shook her hand.
Come see me sometime.
Maybe I will.
2 weeks later he did. But not to get a tattoo.
If you're not going to get inked why are you here?
He stood in the large room, art on the walls, sheets of paper strewn about. Colors and ink, needles and cotton, rubber gloves...it was a mix between an art gallery and an emergency room.
I don't know...I found myself in the neighborhood. I thought I'd stop in.
Well it's a big step for you. Maybe we have a lollipop somewhere. She was head's down, working on a drawing.
He had a thought in his head as she leaned over, the colors different under the brighter lights of the studio. He always thought that the tattoo was the art, but in her case it combined her pale skin as the greater canvass and she herself, in the totality, was the piece of art. Her bare spots were just as beautiful as the colored ones. And like a work in progress she was going to be different tomorrow than today. And he wanted to share with her how he found it intriguing...fucking interesting...just to be near her. Near her movements, near her green fingernails that gripped the pencil, near the mixed scents of her perfume and cigarette smoke. She moved dangerously, with a mouth to cut and a wit to bludgeon, perfect in her imperfections and bold in her display. She almost dared him to take action. And that, he knew,was why he didn't.
Come back and see me when you're ready. Her voice was low and she didn't look up.
Maybe I will. Fair.
He took a last snapshot with his mind and inhaled so he could remember this place as he departed. He was already thinking of a place to get inked as he walked out the door and into the suddenly boring light of the afternoon.
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