For months she had been asking for a full back tattoo.
Every time we passed a shop window she slowed down to study the work behind the glass. Every time she noticed my machines sitting unused in the drawer she brought it up again.
She wanted one from me.
I told her the truth from the beginning. A full back piece hurts like a bitch. The needle runs across bone, muscle, and nerve endings for hours without stopping. The vibration spreads through your body until your skin feels swollen and irritated everywhere the machine passes.
She listened to all of that and shrugged.
“I’ve survived worse.”
That ended the discussion.
I lay everything out across the worktable with the same routine my hands had followed for years. The sterile needles stay sealed until the last moment. Ink caps sit in a straight row while I fill them with black and deep red. Alcohol wipes, gloves, wrap, and paper towels stay arranged within reach.
My hands move through the preparation like muscle memory. Tattooing had always done something to my head that nothing else managed. Once the machine started buzzing, the world narrowed down to a few controlled details.
Skin. Ink. Pressure. Precision.
Everything else faded.
Tonight I get to tattoo my girl again.
She steps into the room wearing a red slip dress. Thin straps rest over her shoulders while the soft fabric drapes across every curve of her body. The material brushes lightly against her thighs when she moves.
The overhead light traces the smooth line of her shoulders and back.
My eyes move across her once before I force my attention back to the equipment.
She walks past me and switches on the speaker. The system hums softly as the playlist loads.
Then she drags a chair into the center of the room. The legs scrape slowly across the wood floor.
She turns the chair backward and straddles it, resting her forearms along the backrest while leaning forward slightly.
Her back stays completely exposed.
I pause while looking at her.
“You sure you don’t want to pick the design?”
She shakes her head.
“I want you to.”
That answer settles heavier in my chest than it should.
“Something that represents everything I survived,” she adds quietly. “Something that feels like me.”
My eyes move across the scars scattered along her back. Every one of them marks something we have walked through together.
I nod once.
“Okay.”
I grab a pencil and begin sketching. The lines form quickly while she waits. I adjust the proportions twice before widening one section slightly.
When I turn the sketch toward her she leans forward to see it.
