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“Habit, I guess.” He shrugged, laying out his pens for outlining. “Don’t worry, we are a latex-free shop,” he reminded her.
Mel relaxed her shoulders. “Yeah, now,” she muttered, remembering the incident with the apprentice, Derek, luckily gone now.
The shop owners–Noah, Jordan, and Wes–wanted to see the still-green artist practice setting up and handling prep work with a client. Melody had agreed to help.
Everything had gone well–normal nerves and the right amount of polite conversation. He had a nearly thorough client history and talked her through the process while setting up her calf for the stencil.
Derek sprayed her leg, then began placing the inked tissue. He’d only gotten halfway through when Melody’s skin began to redden. Bumps appeared and her skin felt worse than her last sunburn.
“Fuck! Where’s her purse?” Jordan was always the first to panic and spring into action.
Melody had begun counting her fingers, focusing on the pressure of her nail on each finger, tricking herself into staying calm, resisting the urge to scratch the irritated skin and spread the irritant. Keenly aware of her breathing, looking for the first signs of distress.
“Wait. What? I–” The panicked look on the young man's face would have been comical if she wasn’t worried about her throat closing. It was a reaction she’d always been afraid of.
“Your gloves. What kind of gloves are you wearing?”
“The kind I always wear, black.”
“Nitrile.” Noah pulled him away from Melody, putting distance between them. “Tell me you used nitrile gloves.”
“No.” Derek blinked, clearly baffled as to what was happening.
“I’m allergic to latex,” Melody whispered.
“Fuck.”
That was the last time he was at INK.
“Mel. Melody, stop.” Noah’s voice pulled her from the memory, and he smacked her hand away from her calf. “You’re scratching.”
“Oh.” Shaking her head, Mel looked down at the light scratches she’d created. “I got lost in thought.”
Noah patted her leg reassuringly. “Take the next hour and a half and chill. Scroll on your phone or look at silly pet videos.” She began to protest. “Nuuh. You gotta learn to relax kid.”
“You're a funny, funny man.”
“Fine, easier said than done. But if you don’t, you're going to burn out and where does that get you?”
Paid bills and a headstart on spinster living.
Turning off the ignition, Wes sagged against the seat, closing his eyes to the imminent headache making itself known behind his eyelids.
Spring had crept up on him without warning, surprising him with its quick arrival. The cold winter had lulled him into a sense of false security, making him believe there was still plenty of time before the change of seasons. But now, like a seasonal snooze alarm, spring had woken him up with a jolt and reminded him that time waits for no one.
The scent of blooming flowers wafted through the air, filling his senses with a distressing symphony of fragrances. He could almost taste the sweetness of cherry blossoms. He used to enjoy spring as a kid before he grew into his allergies that left him a six-foot-four grouchy mess for weeks.
The shrill sound of his cell phone pulled him from the silence. He sighed, unable to ignore his daughter Sarah's special tone.
“Papa, it's me. Papa, it's peanut. Pick ups the phone. Peas.” A beat of silence filled the car; only her breathing as she held the phone. The recorded giggle softened his demeanor. “Papa Bear, it's ba–”
Hitting the button on the steering wheel the call connected. “How's my little bear?” he inquired, his voice low and strained.
“Papa! When’s you comin’ home?”
“In a few hours, I have a meeting over a new project to be at.”
“Oh! Like my pi-nik table?!”
