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I had to see her again.
Over the next year or so I lurked on her socials and picked up bits and pieces about her life and was delighted to learn she broke it off with Cameron. Jordan was finally single. When I came in three weeks ago, I had no idea how she’d react to seeing me. I certainly had no idea she wouldn’t remember…or, if she did remember, ignore me.
Fuck it. She’s going to see me outside creeping if I’m not careful.
I push open the door. Jordan and Merc greet me, and she leads me back to her room. We barely exchange two words as she shaves and cleans my arm. I lie down on my stomach because she's working on the underside of my arm. Soon the familiar sound of tattoo machine lulls me into a state of Zen.
Determined to make this session different, I decide to break the ice. Ease my way into reconnecting. Perhaps if I can jog her memory, I can apologize about Vegas. She may not remember, or even care. But I do.
I treated this goddess like shit and I want to make it right.
“Hey, Jordan.” I look up at her, trying to sound casual. “The CBD soap is bomb.”
Jesus. Bomb? My mojo is waaaaay off.
“Yeah. It’s good stuff.” She glances at me. Raises a judgy eyebrow and goes back to concentrating on her art.
Shit. “Yeah, well.” I try again. “I’ve been looking forward to today.”
Nothing. No reaction. The hum of the tattoo machine fills the air. I steal glances at her, wondering how to breach the wall of silence between us.
“About the design.” I make another attempt. “It’s really something special. You’re incredibly talented.”
Her lips curve into a hint of a smile but she doesn’t look at me. “Thank you. I try to put a piece of myself in everything I do.”
“You know, I did my research, I knew I had to have your art on my body.” I take a deep breath, deciding to dive in. “There’s something about your aesthetic that resonates with me.”
Her hands still. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” I can practically feel the tension emanating between us. “It’ll be worth every penny.”
Jesus. I'm so tongue-tied around her; I sound like a dick.
Jordan barely contains her eye roll and resumes working. “Well, I’m glad you like it.”
As the session continues, I find myself babbling. Telling Jordan about my business, projects I’ve worked on here in Seattle, hoping she’ll engage in conversation. I’d give anything for the chance to maybe, just maybe, reconnect emotionally with the woman who’s haunted my thoughts for years.
But no, she's preoccupied and doesn’t take my bait.
A few hours in, we take a break. I sit up and shake out my arm, watching her tidy up the station and refill her ink pots. “Is everything okay, Jordan? I’ve been chatting away and you’ve barely said a word.”
“What?” She stops what she’s doing and offers me a brief half smile. “Oh…yeah. Just a lot on my mind.”
Aha. An opening. “I’m a good listener.”
A strange expression passes across her face. She opens her mouth to say something, but Merc pops his head in the door. “Jordan, sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got an urgent call.”
“Okay.” Jordan’s halfway out the door. “Peter, do you mind?”
“No problem at all. Take your time,” I say to the air because she’s already gone.
Left alone, I glance around the room. My gaze drifts to her sketchbook lying open on the counter. Driven by curiosity, I take a closer look. The pages are filled with intricate, colorful realistic mermaid designs that practically swim off the page.
There are plenty of other sketches. Lifelike faces. Floral filigrees. Landscapes. Each more impressive than the last.
The mermaids, though.
As an artist myself, I’m struck by the depth of her talent. Very few people are able to capture something essential. Something real. Not like her.
