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"A temporary tattoo."
"Yeah."
I've seen these. They're examples. So people can trial run tattoos. Sometimes artists use them like tracing paper. Go freehand. The image is mirrored, because it's meant to be pulled off the paper and onto someone's skin.
"Cut it out." He picks up scissors and hands them to me.
I snip the edges from the paper.
"Paste it on me." He motions come here.
No. I can't move closer. I'm too close already. "Water?"
He motions to the cooler in the corner.
I move over. Fill a cup. The cotton swabs are on the wire rack behind me.
"Rubbing alcohol first," he says.
There. It's on the top shelf. I press to my tiptoes to grab it. Bring everything back to the desk. Leave it in a neat row.
A medicinal smell fills the room as I uncap the rubbing alcohol and wet a swab.
My left hand goes to his forearm. Holds him in place while the right cleans his shoulder.
There. I grab a paper towel from the corner. Pat dry.
"Take the temp tattoo and take off the plastic."
I do.
"Press it against my skin and hold it in place. Then wet it with the cotton ball."
"Sure." I press the temporary tattoo to his skin. Soak the cotton ball than dab it against the paper, inch by inch.
I can feel him, under the paper.
His warmth.
His hardness.
His pulse.
It's overwhelming.
Then he looks down at me and my body goes into overdrive. What's in those bright blue eyes of his? Is he assessing me? Figuring out how to teach me? How to torture me?
My head is uncertain.
My body is apathetic. It only cares that he's looking at me. That he's close. That he's here.
I force my gaze to the paper. "Is that long enough?"
"Thirty seconds."
That's an eternity. My eyes move around the room. Black desk. Black printer. Silver wire racks. Boxes of ink pads. Of K-cups. Of water bottles.
First aid kit.
