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He jots down the date I asked for in nice handwriting on a piece of transfer paper and shows it to me.
“How about this?” He asks to ensure the date is correct and the style I want.
“Looks good,” I say.
He goes back to collecting the things he’ll need, distributes it all onto a rolling tray, and then pulls it with me towards a backless rolling chair next to mine.
He sits and lays the outline of the date across the banner.
“So… you got a story for this? Looks like a nice tattoo you already have here.”
“Thanks. I had a tattoo artist in Canada do it. I just moved back to the States and so I decided to finish it, and I need it done tonight.”
“Seems urgent. Do the skates and the dates represent something?” He asks, just making conversation.
Most people who get tattoos do it for a reason all their own. If you don’t want people asking about the meaning behind a tattoo, you probably shouldn’t put it on the inside of your forearm where people are going to see it.
I should have thought of that when deciding on placement. But I don’t mind blowing people off when they ask, especially any woman I’ve been with since I got it.
They turn green with envy every time they see the tattoo, even though none of them have ever been more than a night to pass the time.
The truth is, I wanted her where I could see her. Every game since I left her four years ago, and before I go out on the ice, I pull up my sleeve, look down at the tattoo, and hope that she’s watching, believing that someday I’d find a way to earn back her forgiveness.
I paid my retribution in the form of putting off my NHL career to win her father’s good opinion back and prove to her that I’m sorry for what I did, though it's not an eye for an eye. My career was stalled slightly while she lost her chance at the Olympics completely.
“All tattoos have a story, right?”
He just simply nods in response as he pulls the transfer paper off.
“Is this good?” he asks.
I take a look at the placement and nod back in agreement.
“So, the tattoo…?” he asks again.
“The skates are for the girl; the date is for her birthday,” I tell him, keeping things simple.
“You don’t seem too warm and fuzzy about it all for a guy getting a tattoo for his woman,” he says.
"That's because she's not mine.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he says, pulling back right before the needle hits my skin. “Please don’t tell me she’s married, and you're trying to win her back with this birthday tattoo.” He grimaces.
My free hand balls into a fist at the thought of Penelope being married to someone else. The idea of losing her for good is a reality I haven't had to face yet. I guess I figured I still have time. But no time is ever assured.
“No… Jesus…” I give a humorless laugh. “She’s not married. She’s single.”
“Thank God because I can’t tell you how much money I’ve lost talking grown men out of grand gesture tattoos that would never have panned out. I’m not a goddamn shrink… though I think I do more of that here than tattoos, some days.”
I can imagine what he sees and the stories he hears.
“It’s nothing like that,” I tell him, staring down at the four-year-old figure skate tattoo.
He puts his head back down and starts the tattoo.
“Ok… so what’s it like?” he asks.
The needle touches down against my skin, and I settle into the pain, craving the endorphins that will immediately follow.
