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“We passed the tattoo parlor a few stores that way,” I say. “It was empty. I’m pretty sure they can squeeze us in for something small.”
I’ve always wanted a tattoo.
Apart from the few my father has, I only ever saw them on television. I vividly remember climbing on to my father’s lap when I was younger—I couldn’t have been more than four or five—to ask him if I could get my skin ‘marked’ like his. He hadn’t been very open about what his tattoos meant at the time.
Little Alize didn’t know that would become a feature of our relationship.
I always asked questions. He never answered them. On the off-chance that he did, I would later find out he was lying. Despite this, I always saw tattoos as the ultimate form of self-expression. When I lost myself in books and poems and movies, I always wished there was a way to bring to life the quotes and symbolism that meant the most to me.
When you get a tattoo, youalwayshave the memory of what made you get it with you. When you look at it, you’ll always remember why you did it, where you were, who you were with. That’s why I want to get one now, with Tara and Nya.
If the past few months have taught me anything, I’ve learned that life never works out the way you think it will. The things you take for granted can easily be ripped away from you. You can be happy and full of life in one moment and hollow in the next.
I want to commemorate thenow. I want to memorialize the happiness ofthismoment.
When we get to the tattoo shop, it’s just as empty as when we had passed by it earlier. There are four artists inside, and they perk up when we enter. One of them approaches our group. He seems like the owner of the shop.
He’s a slight man with cropped green hair and tattoos peeking out everywhere—his neck, his wrists, even his ankles. He introduces himself as Kiva, and leads us to the back of the establishment where we encounter even a couple more tattoo artists.
Vance and Ezra stay behind in the waiting area.
“What can we do for you ladies?” Kiva asks. He gives us a bright, open-mouthed smile. His tongue is pierced in three places.
“Matching tattoos,” I say. “And, a nose piercing for me.”
Kiva is thrilled. He leads us over to a table in the far corner of the room and pulls out a selection of bound tattoo design books. “What are we thinking of?” he says, thumbing through the pages.
“Nothing too big,” Nya interjects. “Something cute that the three of us would like.”
“Where are you thinking of having them done?”
“I want mine on my ankle,” Nya says.
“My wrist,” I say.
“Give me a tramp stamp.” Tara grins, hiking up the back of her blouse.
Laughter erupts from our group. We spend a few more minutes thumbing through the catalog of designs until we stumble on one that we all like—it’s lineart of a wilting rose, with drops of blood falling from the petals.
It’s the right amount of grunge for Tara, but still cute enough for Nya to like. I’m in love with symbolism—I feel like a bleeding wilting rose more times than I would admit to anyone. With the design chosen, Kiva leads us to the tattooing stations and hands us off to three different artists.
The person who does my tattoo is named Star, and they have long, icy teal hair and a slew of bright, colorful tattoos that look like they were scribbled on by a child—I love the art style. Star gives me a welcoming grin.
“First time?”
“Yes,” I say. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad will it hurt?”
Star taps a finger on their chin. “It’s a tiny tattoo so it shouldn’t hurt that much, even though it’s on your wrist. Are you sensitive to pain?”
I almost want to tell them no, but that would just open me up to more questions.
“Sometimes,” I say, and that isn’t a lie. I’m only sensitive to emotional pain. “But, I think I’ll be fine.”
Star grins. “I can use some numbing cream if that will help.”
“No, it’s fine.”
They take my word for it and, after a brief prep session, start their work. They were right about the pain—it wasn’t too much for me to handle. In fact, it ended a bit too soon.
