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“Here,” was all she said.
“Aurnia—”
“Here.”
Like I said, I was helpless. I moved without further objection toward my drawing table. With no more than one last glance toward her, I clicked on my lamp. And began.
For what felt like a very long time there was only the scratch of my pencil against the paper and the occasional brush of flesh against leather as Aurnia shifted her bare legs on the tattooing chair. Did she fidget from nerves? Was it fear that kept her from keeping still as I worked? Was she moving so that she did not feel locked into her decision? I was almost certain this was the reason.
So I drew slowly. More slowly than I needed to. I wanted to give her time to change her mind. About the tattoo. About us.
I could only stretch out the drawing for so long. Once the image came to my mind it was like falling. Once I saw it coming to life on the page, all I could do was draw faster. Once I pictured what it would look like on Aurnia’s thigh I had to have it. The need was as much physical as mental. I could feel it in my chest. In my fucking heart.
“What do you think?” I asked at last, turning the drawing for her to see, adjusting the lamp so that the light fell upon it.
It was in my style: black and white. A black dragon twisting around a swirl of falling white lotus flowers. As I watched Aurnia’s eyes move across it, a part of me hoped she didn’t like it. There was too much of me in it. All of me, even. One day she would regret having me there, on her inner thigh, down her leg. One day she would wish me gone, as I most certainly would be. But there I would be. Permanent. Forever. Me.
I was not to be spared. Aurnia’s eyes lifted from the page. Lifted and met mine.
“Yes.”
