She was stretched out on the table in the tattoo parlour, holding my hand. The red of her nails matched the red on a cartoon of a Chinese dragon on the wall. In the background you could hear the door to the street opening and closing, the receptionist chatting away with customers and tyre-kickers alike. On the stereo Biffy Clyro were doing their best or worst, depending upon your taste.The disposable paper sheet underneath her rustled and moved as she prepared herself. She'd taken off her skirt, not that it concealed much, had removed her top to reveal a lacy black bra, and was undoing the tie side of her panties. The tattoo she'd chosen would reach from her ribs on her right hand side all the way down to her, the branches and blossoms of the rose tree design reaching across to her navel and curving round her hip. She'd chosen the design, had drawn it out, reminding me of her artistic skill, the roses further from her pelvis a darker red, almost black at the edge, a deep contrast to the lipstick red above her groin.
That was the design, blue tacked to the wall on cartridge paper and transferred onto multiple sheets of tracing paper that were taped together to make the stencil. Today was about doing the lining, the establishing of the shape of the tatt. There'd be more appointments to colour it in, to complete her vision.She wanted to look away as the artist fitted the needle to the gun, tying it down to the frame with rubber bands, adjusting it by eye. I made her look at it, made her notice the sterile wrappers in a kidney dish on the shelf behind him, the neat thimbles of colour, dark black with a blue hue to the surface, secured to the shelf next to him with vaseline. She'd contemplated this day for so long, and I wanted her to take in every detail.
I listened to the sharp intake of breath as she let the artist position the stencil. She knew him, had talked to him for months as she planned the piece of work, explained her desire, to take the idea of black and red roses and marry them together. I squeezed her hand and asked her to relax. to accept the feel of the transfer and the anticipation. She smiled at me, and squeezed back, and turned her head to watch the artist as he hooked the power leads to the gun and tested the pedal.
Then he began tracing out the lines, one side of the central trunk to the other. working in a long sweep down over her hip. I watched her face, and stroked the back of her hand as she bit her lower lip. Her smile was warm, and amused, and she was happy to make small talk with the artist as he worked. he was attentive, checking she was OK; the way she was lying meant he couldn't see her face, so he kept asking, kept reassuring her as he wiped away the excess ink or the smears of blood.
He didn't need to ask. By the time he'd completed the tendrils and blossoms that arced around her back I was sure. She wasn't hurting when she bit her lip, she was turned on. Her nipples were poking against her bra like dark thimbles, hard and prominent. I couldn't help but smile and enjoy her embarrassment, even if her predicament was arousing me as well. Ninety minutes had gone by and neither of us had noticed it particularly; not until the artist decided he needed a break for a cigarette and to give her a break.
