Tink nods.
With my left hand, I press his wrist against the chair arm—gentle, but firm. And God, but his hands are small. His whole arm is small, really: thin, but not wiry like some guys. More…slender. Smooth.
Soft.
I breathe out.
“Okay,” I say, getting the needle humming in my right hand. “Coming in now. You’ll feel a slight?—”
Tink flinches. I stop.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing, I just…” I tense my lips against a smile. “I didn’t even touch you yet.”
Tink’s cheeks flush. “Oh.”
“With the needle, I mean,” I add, stupidly. I feelmycheeks flush. “But, uh. Now. If you’re ready.”
Tink nods.
“Try not to think about the needle,” I say. “Focus on the pressure of my hand.”
He nods again.
“And you can…” I lower my voice. “You can close your eyes, if that helps.”
I look up at him. His eyes.
Those long lashes.
He closes them.
And beneath the press of my hand, I feel his arm relax.
“Okay, coming back in,” I say softly. “Needle’s here, and…”
Again, he flinches, but not so much this time, not so big. A little grunt of pain, and I glance up to check, but his eyes are still closed, his lips now pressed tightly together too.
“Doing great,” I say, and press a bit firmer with my hand again. “Relax.”
He does.
The needle hums against him, and I lean in, close, working a steady line as quickly as I can down the body of the figure, her features, her hair. Without missing a beat I grab behind me for a paper towel and follow gently in my own wake, left hand wiping excess ink as I balance the pressure with my right.
“I’m trying to be gentle,” I say, my voice coming out raspier than I mean to. I clear my throat and keep going.
The stars themselves take less time: the big, bolder ones the longest, the small peppering of tiny ones even quicker. He’s gotgood skin for this: even, no freckles or bumps, barely even that much hair.
It’s nice to the touch.
Why’d you draw her as Tink?
I don’t know,I think.I don’t know. I didn’t even know I was.
“Whoa.”
I look up. Tink’s eyes are open, but glassy. Unfocused even as he’s staring at his arm, and…
