He considers. “Good.”
I nod. Bite my lip.
“Not too late to back out,” I say, for some reason. For him, for me, I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, because before Tink can answer, there’s a rattle on the spiral stairs and Pan all but bounds into the shop.
“T minus ten hours to game time,” he announces. “How’s everybody feeling?”
I blink, and say nothing. Neither does Tink.
“Uh, fine,” Tink says at last. “Little busy at the moment?”
“Aha.” Pan cocks his head down at the stencil on Tink’s arm, nodding. Then he frowns. “You’re not gonna do it like…” He gestures up and down Tink’s arm.
“Like what?” Tink asks.
“I dunno.” Pan shrugs. “Put it somewhere bigger? Like, ribs, or a back piece…”
I realize I’m still touching Tink’s arm, and pull away like it’s burning me.
“Uh, sure,” I say quickly. “We even could try a few placements, if you want. I can print another stencil?—”
“No,” Tink says quickly. “This is fine.”
Pan looks put out. “Aw, c’mon, you don’t even wanna see what it looks like?”
Tink stiffens. “I like it here,” he says.
Something weird is going on. I feel the sudden need to diffuse the tension.
“Client’s always right,” I say to Pan. “It’s his body. You want a back piece, you know how to book me.”
Pan rolls his eyes. “Fine. Rain check on that, though. Busy times.” He folds his arms and looks at Tink. “You gonna be done in time to help set up?”
Tink nods. “If you’d just let me get the damn thing inked,” he adds.
“Fine, fine. Message received.” Pan backs off, palms up. “Just come find me when you’re done. Have fun getting stabbed.”
He salutes and strides out the shop door, the bell tinkling as he goes.
“Dumbass,” I mutter under my breath. I swivel my stool to my tray, pick up the pen and tap the floor pedal. All operational. Swivel back to Tink.
He’s pale as a goddamn sheet.
“You good?” I ask. “Because if you pass out, I’m going to stop. I don’t tattoo the unconscious.”
“I’mfine,” Tink says. “God, why does everyone think I’m such a…”
He trails off, staring out into the shop. His profile still: lips firm together, eyes slightly narrowed.
“I don’t,” I say, after a moment. Tink turns.
“What?”
“I don’t think you’re…anything.” I shrug, try to make a joke of it. “Even if I can do more push-ups than you.”
I take his wrist, gently, and lay it on the arm of the chair. Sometimes you have to do this, as the artist: take charge. Direct things. Tell them what to do. He who has the sharp implement calls the shots, I guess, but also…also clear directions just make it easier on everyone involved, I guess.
“Try to relax,” I say. “The tenser you are, the more resistance I’m pushing through, and the more it’ll hurt. It’s kinda…mind over matter that way.”
