“No, no, you’re right,” I agree. “Something’s off.” I hate to say this about my own work, but Joan looks…ugly. And I don’t draw ugly women. Ugly anything.
“The animals look good, though,” Wendy puts in, like she wants to give me the old compliment sandwich. She points at the dog. “Did you draw that from Nana?”
“Ha, yeah,” I admit. “You can…thank her for the inspiration, I guess. Extra pats or treats or whatever.”
Wendy giggles. Then frowns.
“Does it hurt?” Her little voice is surprisingly blunt.
“Does…” It takes me a second. “Oh, getting tattooed, you mean?”
“Yeah.” She chews her lip, glances down at Nana, who’s now circling around her ankles. I make a mental note to chase them out of here before my first appointment arrives because I am pretty sure that animals in a tattoo parlor is going to be some kind of code violation, and that’s not something I am going to risk, given what everyone else gets up to around here.
“Does it hurt?” I repeat, my hand unconsciously going to my neck to rub it. To where the snake twines from the front of my throat all the way toward the back of my skull. That was alongafternoon.
“Well, it doesn’t feel great,” I say. “But everyone’s got a different tolerance for it. I would say it kind of feels like…like a bunch of tiny needles going in and out of your skin really fast.”
Wendy blinks. This doesn’t seem to be enough of an explanation for her. I sigh.I don’t mind the pain,I think.But I’m a little fucked up that way. And I’m certainly fucked up enough to not mind inflicting it on other people, in the name of creating something, I guess.
“It’s like…” I try to think. “Are your ears pierced?” I glance at her, but there’s no jewelry I can see, and Wendy shakes her head no. I suck my teeth. “Okay, maybe…stung by a bee?”
“Yeah, once,” Wendy says. “When I was a kid.”
I blink, the strangeness of what she said taking a moment to sink in because sheisa kid, but I breeze past it. “Yeah, so kind of like that,” I say, “but faster, and repeated so it kind of blurs together. I guess.” I give her an apologetic look and a shrug. “People use numbing cream, and that helps, but it’s not going to be a fully pleasant experience no matter what.” I cock my head, trying to lighten the mood, because Wendy looks…stressed, maybe. “Why, you thinking of getting one?”
“Mm-mm.” Wendy shakes her head. “I mean, not right now,” she says. “Maybe eventually.” She glances at the ceiling. “I was asking for Nana.”
“For your dog,” I repeat. I flip the cover of my sketchbook closed and get out of my chair. I really need to start prepping. “Sorry, I don’t do, uh, veterinary tattooing, if that’s even a thing,” I say. “I require full consent from anyone who goes under my needle. Consent means, like, they agree to it,” I explain before she can ask. “And dogs can’t do that because they don’t, I don’t know, speak English or whatever.”
“Nanahasa tattoo.”
I lower my tray for a second. “What?” My mind short circuits.What kind of fucked up person would give a dog a tattoo?I think.And, I have to wonder, of what and where?
“Yeah, look.” Wendy drops to her knees and pulls Nana’s little bullet head into her hands, flipping one ear inside out. “See?”
I follow the chipped blue fingernail polish of her finger as it traces along the soft pink inside to a small, blurred line: a series of numbers and letters.
“They do that at the racetrack,” Wendy says solemnly. “To keep track of the dogs.”
“Oh,” I say. I…guessthat makes sense? This is one of the few places in the country, and maybe on earth, where dog racing is still legal. There’s a track near the casino in the Marina. I think, anyway—I’ve never been and never cared to.
“She didn’t race, though.” Wendy flips the dog’s ear back and gives her head a little pat as she gets to her feet. “Too small, too scrawny. That’s why she got to be mine instead. My dad brought her home for me,” she adds.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice. I guess.” I don’t say the other thing that I am thinking, which is that for an animal that thin, flesh full of blood vessels and nerves…
I shiver involuntarily. Yeah, it’s almostmorefucked up knowing the reason. Fucked up that people race dogs at all. Because a fucked up person would do any part of that.
“It can’t hurt that much,” Wendy says, turning back to her sketchbook. “I mean, allyouguys have tattoos, right?”
I look down at myself briefly. “Well, yeah.”
“Did you do everyone’s tattoos here?”
I shake my head. “I mean, I didn’t do them on myself. I guess you can, but like…” I slither a finger down my neck for emphasis. “I’m not going to try doing this in the mirror, you know whatI mean?” Wendy giggles. “And I’ve done a few for Pan, mostly, ‘cause he talked me into it. And on my brother.”
Wendy frowns.
“Fox,” I clarify, “the one that looks like me, kind of. Not Blue. I mean, Blue’s not my brother, and I’ve also never tattooed him.”
