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Aurnia
Conor was not home when I awoke, stiff but smiling.
The floor beneath me was cold, the old worn floorboards frozen stiff by the draughty night, but the comforter against my cheek was warm. I breathed into it and watched it rise and fall with the excitement of a little kid inside her first living room blanket fort.
Pale light sneaked under the top of the comforter. I stretched my fingertips to dip into it like it was a still pool, or paint. Paint for a tattoo maybe. A tattoo of a sun.
I felt a strange tinge in my stomach at the seemingly untouched mattress beside me. I stood at the edge of the bed longer than I probably would want to admit wondering whether Conor was the type to make his bed in the morning. Would he take the time to stretch out the wrinkles to the point where no trace of him was left? Or was the reason for the lack of signs of life in the bed the more obvious one: he hadn’t slept there? He hadn’t slept there beside me.
I fixed myself another bowl of Lucky Charms, though the rainbow marshmallow I selected first with the tip of my spoon didn’t taste quite as incredible alone at the little flimsy table. I cleaned up after myself, found the toothbrush Conor told me about. I dragged my fingers through my hair in lieu of a comb.
It was strange, moving about the apartment at ease. I didn’t have to check corners. I didn’t have to wait at the end of hallways and strain my ear for movement. I didn’t have to sprint into the kitchen, scoop what I needed (which was never enough) into my arms, and sprint back out. It was strange, but it was peaceful. It was safe.
I searched for little hints about Conor, about who he was. I knew rather little. I had what Mason and Rian had told me, but that information always came with the eventual reddening of cheeks and clearing of throats like they hadn’t meant to tell me, like they weren’t supposed to tell me.
I peered inside dresser drawers, carded through a small, scarcely filled closet. I rifled around a medicine cabinet.
I found almost nothing of note: a brand of deodorant, a single clip-on tie, an old art school sweatshirt that was only interesting for the fact that it looked practically unworn in a sea of faded, torn, and ink-stained clothes, a crumbled Post-it that read: buy oranges.
After circling the apartment and finding nothing but slightly dusty corners, I gave up. As I stood in the centre of the empty, rather (very) lifeless living room, it seemed to me that Conor didn’t allow himself places to put pieces of himself. There were no counters for displaying pictures of family, of friends. There were no junk drawers for ticket stubs and bar coasters and receipts for his favourite takeout place. The walls were brick, almost as if on purpose to make tacking personal things up even more difficult.
If Conor had things of himself to hide, he hid them within himself. It was him that I had to search. Him that I had to find the key for.
I expected Conor to be at Dublin Ink, because, well, where else would he be, if not at one of his two homes? But I was the first in. I considered that I was just early; it was the first good sleep I’d had in…well, I couldn’t remember how long. I wasn’t used to not dragging myself from the tiniest semblance of sleep I’d managed to grab ahold of just before the ringing of my alarm.
I set about making things extra nice for when Conor arrived. Maybe he’d even be ready to teach me something about tattooing at long last. We’d turned a leaf after all, if perhaps a shaky one. I mean, he was letting me stay at his place, even if he informed me of this kindness at the very top of his lungs…
My list of daily tasks went quickly and soon both Mason and Rian had arrived, but no Conor. I didn’t want to ask them if they knew where Conor was. I didn’t want to seem overeager, overexcited. Besides, I pretty much knew the answers I’d get: “He should be getting laid, is what he should be off doing,” from Mason and “What? Conor…oh, right. Umm, no idea, I’m afraid,” from Rian.
The day passed slowly as it does when you’re constantly checking the minute hand of the clock. But it was the front door that I was checking.
Conor’s absence was made even more torturous by the fact that ever since my street art and its social media success, Dublin Ink had seen a steady little trickle of customers willing to risk the seedy location. So whereas before I could sweep and resweep the floor in peace, now I had to look up with a thudding heart at every little ring of the bell.
It was never Conor.
“Hello,” this person or that would say, “um, I was wondering if I could talk to someone about a tattoo.”
Mason or Rian (depending mostly on whether the person was a woman) would greet them, guide them inside past me, and I would be left watching the little bell come once more to stand still. Wondering what was wrong. Wondering what I’d done wrong.
It wasn’t until ten minutes before closing that Conor finally came into the shop. The collar of his leather jacket was upturned, his head bent low, his shoulders stooped forward. He went straight to his workstation and without a word began looking through invoices, receipts, bank notices. My smile fell at his abrupt and unpleasant entrance. Maybe it was just the stress of the shop. We were better. We were good.
After chewing on my lip for a moment in contemplation, I snatched up a tattoo gun and a canister of ink and approached Conor.
“Hey,” I said, warmly, brightly, “I was thinking maybe tonight you could show me how to load this.”
Mason had already taught me and Rian (who had been there, but not really been there when Mason taught me) taught me two afternoons later. But it was one of the simplest things I could think of to ask for.
Maybe I should have seen that I was still walking on eggshells around Conor. I guess anyone else would have seen that as a warning sign, taking three steps back and calling it baby steps. But I was blinded by a good night’s sleep, a place to call home, and the memory of Conor asking, in his gruff voice, “Are you hungry?”
Too blinded, it would seem, because it took me by surprise when Conor snatched the tattoo gun from my hands and, without even looking at it, snapped, “You call this clean?”
He was out of his chair, looming high above me, before I could even stumble backwards.
“You can go,” he said as he stormed out of the parlour. “I’ll do it my fucking self.”
Things were to only get worse. Worse, even, than they had been before the night that Conor had come to save me. A key to his apartment was thrown on the kitchen table. A few dirty bills were scattered around it like I was a whore he’d paid to play neglected little girl. I supposed they were meant for groceries, but he never said. He was never around to say.
The bed sheets on the mattress beside where I slept on the floor with the comforter remained as they had been that first morning I woke up: untouched.
