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"Cleaning your apartment?"
"Same thing. I want it clean. That's how I want to live. Yeah, there's shitty stuff about being an adult, but, mostly, I love it. I'm in charge of my days. I want bubble tea, I get it. I want to invite a hot grad student to watch a sci-fi classic, I do it."
"What about work?"
"I have days I can't deal with the bullshit, but mostly, I love the shop. And the guys there. Even if they're idiots."
A teenage girl with blond pigtails clears the register.
I move forward, dragging him with me. "How did you get into doing tattoos? Were you one of those kids who had a sleeve planned by middle school?"
"Kinda. I always wanted ink. Maybe it was adolescent rebellion. Maybe it was vanity. Maybe it was the thrill of marking my body. I'm not sure."
"What is it now?"
"I like it."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
"But it's so… simple."
"Why make shit complicated?"
Because life is complicated. Things are complicated. Making them simple—that's the hard part.
The line moves. Only two customers to go. I have to make up my mind. The smell of citrus brings me back to a hundred afternoons in a similar shop, giggling about boys and complaining about homework with Lily.
Walker presses his palm into my stomach. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I move forward to break his touch. "You still haven't said how you got into tattoos."
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. We were friends back in high school."
"You went to the same school?"
"Different ones. But we were in the same scene."
"Scene? Really?"
"People say scene."
"Name one other person."
He pulls me closer. "You like mocking me."
"Yeah. You like mocking me."
He nods. "You're cute when you're flustered. Or needy."
I swallow hard. Sex is appealing. Very appealing. It makes sense. And with Walker, it feels…
It feels like everything.
