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Chapter Text

Eternal-inked

On the cozy morning of her fiftieth birthday, as she enjoys the calmness of the dawn peeking through her bedroom window, Serena Campbell decides this is the day.

The thought never left her. Its something she always puts aside, hidden somewhere in the back of her mind, still peeking here and there on different occasions, triggered by painful memories or melancholic souvenirs.

She will get herself a tattoo. A symbol representing all the path traveled, guiding her through the remaining of her journey. A summary of her life, a mosaic of various traits of her individuality. An intimate reminder of her…

Before deepening her thought on this decision, laundry and tidying are on top of the list today. On her birthdays, Serena always takes the day off, an old habit she intends on keeping even though there is no husband, or partner, to wake her up with a festive kiss. Even Elinor used to concoct a birthday breakfast. Nowadays, birthdays rhyme with quiet time and solitude, even if that means housecleaning. It helps her clear her mind and her surroundings.

Jason being at Alan's, Serena expects a phone call soon. She can already imagine his kind words, cannot help but smile.

In the kitchen, as she pours herself a cup of strong coffee, she thinks about that eccentric tattoo shop she saw, once, during a detour when there was a car pileup on the main highway. Under the sign displaying the shop's name - she regretfully does not remember the name -, it proudly said All Female Tattooists. That is a business Serena would proudly support. It is located in an ordinary neighborhood, on a surprisingly busy street corner. The first floor of the building is shared by two shops: a tea room and a tattoo parlor. She remembers the harmonious facades and eccentric colors. She will call the shop and ask for information.

Serena takes a sip of her coffee and nearly groans of pleasure when the caffeine warms her throat. At that specific time, Jason decides to call. Already prepared, phone in hand, Serena picks up.

"Good morning Jason," her voice is joyful. She feels serene, in slow motion.

"Good morning auntie Serena. Happy birthday," wishes Jason with seriousness. "I hope you will have a pleasant day," he continues.

"Thank you my dear, that is very sweet of you. I intend on making this day very special indeed," she does not say more, taking advantage of this moment to sip at her cup.

"On birthdays, there has to be a cake. Would it be appropriate if I bring a cake with me tomorrow when I'll be back at your place?" he inquires.

"Oh, that would be lovely. I'd really like that, Jason," Serena can picture him smiling.

"Okay. Happy birthday again and see you tomorrow."

"Thank you my dear, see you later," Serena hangs up after Jason.

A pleasant weightlessness settles in the atmosphere and in her heart as she look around.

Before thinking about the future, she needs to freshen the past.

She gulps down the remaining of her coffee. The clock on the walls points to 8am. There is a house to clean and a music to blast loudly through the walls. Full of energy and motivation, Serena sets the cup in the sink and gets to work.

***

Worn out, Serena happily collapses on a living room chair, arms and legs spread out, breathing heavily. Laundry is drying. The first floor is definitely spick-and-span, from dusting to vacuuming, from moping to tidying up. It smells lemony fresh. Contented, she decides the second floor could wait for another birthday. She smirks at her own derision.

Gathering her strength, she uses the palm of her hands on the armrest to lift her back up to her feet. This time, the groan that escape her lips is not one of pleasure, but rather one of old age.

After a refreshing shower, Serena will call the tattoo parlor for information. Excitement and edginess pursue her under the running water.

***

As she dries her cleaned and perfumed body with her towel, Serena wonders about the symbols, the drawings, the themes of her eventual tattoo. Where to start? Should she think first about the location on her body, or should she ponder about the sketch itself?

Practical or lovely? Apparent or hidden? Discreet or eye-catching? Superficial or significant? Color or black & white?

She stares at her naked-self in the wall-length looking glass and is incapable of imagining any ink, shades or shapes.

Like a spiral, her opposing thoughts are competing in her mind, never satisfied with a mutual verdict.

Shuddering and discouraged, Serena starts to get dressed. She definitely needs guiding before actually ponder about silhouettes and setting. Several technical questions hold her back from inspiration. Might as well investigate on the tattoo shop itself before thinking about her own little project.

As she puts on clothes, simple black trousers and her coral blouse, Serena tries to remember the drive that led her to pass by the shop during her detour. She picks up her phone, sits at the edge of her bed and starts her research on Google Map.

Eternal-Inked. Appropriate name, a clear reminder of the upcoming permanency.

As a surgeon, Serena is aware of multiples life-changing situations where permanency happens without preparation. Amputations, rare illness, miscarriage. No turning-back, no time-travel superpowers. At least, a tattoo is a choice, determining a specific moment, expressing a personality-trait, making a slice of life visible. Heck, if it turns out her tattoo is bad, it'll be a funny story to tell at parties.

Serena makes a quick social media research to verify the customer's appreciation. The global rating is higher than average, a few complaints here and there about pricing. Many comments about regular customers complimenting the artist's work and showing off their work-in-progress. Serena is impressed by the various styles and how easily you can recognise an artist's personal touch. She admits it's difficult to choose a drawing style if you haven't got the slightest idea about how your own project is going to go.

It says it opens at noon, giving her just enough time to hurry in the kitchen and pour herself a second cup of coffee before making the phone call.

On her way to the kitchen, she almost hops from excitement. The simple thought of such a bold decision already activates adrenaline in her system. Passing by the living room, she congratulates herself on the housework done this morning. It smells nice and looks so inviting. What a pity, in an empty house, but it does not matter, she owes it to herself.

At noon sharp, Serena makes the phone call, coffee cup in hand.

The receptionist picks up after a few rings.

"Eternal-inked" the voice is monotonous, young and feminine. Serena tries not to be intimidated. Yet, unfamiliar stuttering seizes her.

"Yes, um, I'm wondering if you could help me. I'm, I'm in a bit of a dilemma. You see, I…I might - " The voice on the other side of the device interrupts her.

"Never got tattooed before?" it asks.

Serena didn't expect to be so obvious.

"No, but I'm planning to as I've just turned 50." she quickly adds, afraid of being interrupted again. Somehow, Serena can sense that the receptionist softens her approach.

"That's a wicked idea. Happy birthday!" the young lady enhances.  

"Yes, um, I think it might be just what the doctor ordered to celebrate that number." she continues, trying humor to hide her nervousness. It works, because she hears a laugh.

"What kind of project do you have in mind?" the voice still have that laugh melody.

"That's the problem. Someone suggested it a few years ago and the idea couldn't leave me. It may sound typical, I just haven't made up my mind with any project yet," she confesses. Noting there is no reply on the other side, she continues.

"Maybe one your artists can direct me, help me come up with something. I mean, I have-I have ideas, it's just, I'm worried on where to start…Is there a way of speaking with an artist about the tattoo, um, process?" She tries so hard not to sound pathetic, thinks she fails.

After a few seconds, the receptionist responds.

"I'll book a consultation with Bernie." Serena hears keyboard typing.

"You think Bernie is the suitable person to help me out?"

"Definitely. Are you free today despite it being your birthday?"

Serena didn't expect her plans to embody so rapidly.

"I'll try." That's it, she definitely sounds pathetic. Who is alone on their birthdays?

"Great, can you make it in an hour? Its always quieter during opening time and Bernie only have tattoo appointments in late afternoon." The receptionist indicates.

Serena feels stage fright, as if an entire audience will assist to her consultation, scrutinize every inch of her being. She looks as the clock, thinks quickly, has to mentally repeat to herself this is not the official tattooing session, it's only a meeting for discussion.

"Alright, I'll be there." The adrenaline is rushing in, as her consultation gets official.

"Perfect. What's your name?"

"Serena Campbell."

********

Today seems like any other day to discuss tattoos, hence being middle-aged. October's sun warms the sidewalks on this autumn morning. Red-shaded leaves are whirling beside Serena towards the establishment. They are a reminder of the nervous butterflies in her stomach. She arrives in advance, earlier than expected. Professional habit.  

As Serena opens the front door, she is greeted by a bell chime and an eclectic view that sets her aback. 

The reception area is packed with knick-knack of all sorts. Anything from old furniture such as brown chesterfield couch to kitsch decoration (of course there is a flamingo with sunglasses), 80's glass ashtrays where candies await, and a polished coffin with detailed ornaments that greets you with a Welcome sign. An immense chandelier hangs from the high ceiling and it seems to suffer from post-pollock syndrome. It is joined by a traffic light post fixed upside down. The immense turquoise walls are a living tapestry of portraits, graffiti's and paintings for sale. The ambient smell is intriguing, there is a mixture of sweet vanilla and coconut, with a hint of disinfectant product.

Serena looks around at the front desk but no one is there to greet her. She waits, transferring her weight on one foot at a time, balancing her edginess.

A few clients are already waiting, most of them probably being accompanied by loved ones. It is refreshing to witness variation in the age of the clientele. They are sitting on the Victorian sofas and chatting enthusiastically. A sting in Serena's heart makes her body shiver.

Serena tries not to think about her, doing this together.

She does not know anyone closely enough willing to guide her in this decision. Jason would worryingly ask too many hygiene and technical questions. This loneliness will be at her advantage, she thinks, through the experience of temporary pain and permanent art.

The reception room is separated by a thin wooden paravent, sculped with filigree shapes in its middle, which means the wall is a see-through. The border of the paravent shows meticulously craved roots and thorns. The opening is an elevated swing door. On the other side is the artist's area with tables and counters but Serena is not able to see much from where she is standing.

After a short time, an employee comes out from the back, through the swing door. She is a young woman, with beautiful chestnut hair, holding a bunch of papers in her arms. Although she appears nonchalant, she seems to know and appreciate her tasks.  

"Alright people, here is your consent form. Your tattoo artists will be with you shortly," she explains while handing out the forms. Serena observes the small groups reading and adding their signatures. She can feel their excitement, with a dash of uneasiness.

Feeling sidelined, that impression quickly disappears as the receptionist walks up to Serena in order to welcome her.

"You must be Serena. Welcome to Eternal-inked. My name is Charlotte," she says. "Please remove your boots and have a seat," she points to the vacant seats before heading back to her desk.

"Thank you for taking time to squeeze me in your schedule today, Charlotte," Serena adds while taking off her boots. 

Charlotte looks up from her counter with a smile. "That reminds me, Happy Birthday!". Following this, many faces turn in her direction with warm wishes. Serena blushes, shyness hitting her, feeling ungainly as she is still taking off her boots, standing on one foot.

"Thank you all, its very kind," she replies while straightening her clothes and hanging her coat on the hanger. "Um, Charlotte, I forgot to ask the price for such a consultation…In haste to get here on time, I forgot to ask."

"Oh, no worries. Consultations are free. You only need to make a deposit if you decide to go through with a tattoo in the near future, resulting from the arrangement made with the artist."

"Oh, thank you."  She replies before having a seat, relieved.  

Gradually, tattoo artists emerge from the swing doors, walking up directly to their customers with whom they visibly had a consultation beforehand.

All the tattooists are women in their twenties or thirties. To Serena's surprise, not all of them have sleeves or markings on hands and neck. Okay, one woman is quite intense and even have her skull colored with a beautify shaped mandala. The other artists are relatively moderate on the visible parts of their skin. Serena wonders if Bernie is one of them.

The tattooists kindly invite their respective clients -mostly adults, one older teenager escorted by a parent -  to follow them in the back, their accompanists follow closely behind.

"Bernie is on her way, Serena." Charlotte specifies.

As Serena is left alone in the reception area with Charlotte, surrounded by all the miscellaneous assortments of diverse cultures and eras, she begins to feel more at ease as she familiarises herself with the place. Slowly, inspiration sparks its flames in her mind, as colors and shapes whirl around her. She is getting used to the particular aroma mixture of coconut and sanitizer.

Lost in her thoughts, digging in the back of her mind, imploring ancient memories to climb up to the surface, Serena does not acknowledge the swing doors opening and closing, nor the woman standing, waiting for Serena to notice her.

A polite cough to gain her attention is sufficient to bring Serena back to the present. Seeing the stranger for the first time, Serena mumbles an apology and stands up to make eye contact with the person.

"Hello Serena, I'm Bernie."

She introduces herself while looking directly into Serena's warm eyes. The voice is throaty, filled with interest. They shake hands. Bernie's palms and fingers are surprisingly soft and Serena restrains herself from saying so.

Bernie embodies the exact opposite of what Serena projected as her consultant. In front of her stands a mature woman with light skin, a few moles and no makeup. Her face sublimely offers sharp edges, such as an aquiline nose, large cheeks and thin lips. Something in her large eyes reveals gentleness and wisdom. Bernie does not seem to know the existence of a hair brush, as blonde peaks contours her jaw and bangs tickles her eyelids.

Her clothes are relatively simple, black skinny jeans and a large white shirt. All of her visible tattoos are black and white. Her right arm and forearm appear to undertone a story. Something with dark spirals, a pocket watch with roman numbers, maybe a crown. A portrait of what appears to be a wolf. Her left side shows a wild forest. Serena is convinced of seeing a tranquil river between a spinet and a birch, in front of mountains. At this distance, she can only glance, as she awkwardly needs to gather her courage to make acquaintance with a woman of her own age.

"Nice to meet you Bernie. Thank you for seeing me today." Serena manages to say without stuttering. She does not know what to do with her arms. She remembers vaguely the softness of Bernie's hands.

"It's my pleasure," there is a pause where none of them move, before Bernie comes to the rescue. "Shall we go in the back? We can discuss more in private." She points to the paravents and Serena is having a hard time concentrating. She is captivated by Bernie's arms and impressed by the quantity of art she exposes.

"Lead the way." She settles, following the heavily tattooed and gentle figure that is Bernie.

Serena's heartbeat accelerates once she passes through the swing doors. She has to remind herself that she is only here to obtain information and discuss about ideas. Hopefully Bernie will not pressure her.

Bernie's figure is so slender, it captivates Serena's attention. She seems so at ease with her body, as if nothing matters, completely comfortable in her environment. It takes a lot of Serena's will power to stop from staring at her sleeve tattoos while she follows her further inside the shop. They give her the impression of suddenly coming to life, interrelated with Bernie's movements.

The main room is an open space partitioned in various individual working stations. Seeing all the occupied ones, Serena guesses Bernie's station is the remaining one, positioned completely at the back of the room. Serena supposes it must be the most advantageous setting, since there are fewer comings and goings. As they walk by the other artist's station, Serena can not stop herself from peeking discreetly. She is hypnotized by the constant noise of the machines. It’s a sound difficult to describe, similar to a humming vibration, distinct but also very thick. Once its started, it blends in the ambiance, an omnipresence. Some customers are still at the preparation stage and Serena can definitely sense their adrenaline, comparable to the one felt from her patients when she prepares them for surgeries. Quickly, she feels silly walking around in short steps wearing only her boring grey socks in front of all the courage and expression surrounding her, like a clumsy pedestrian in stream of traffic. 

Bernie's workplace is immaculate. Fixed on the wall, wooden shelves store perfectly settled bottles of ink, sorted by color gradient. Over the shelves hangs a beautiful drawing of the cartoon version of Wonder Woman that overlay almost the entire portion of her wall. Under the shelves is her counter, where she stocks equipment and machines, some even have long pipes and cables. For some reason, despite Serena being a surgeon, the outcome makes her gulp from worry.

Bernie's chair is a stool on wheels. And of course, there is the massage table in the center of her station, not too far of reach from her counter. It looks very solid, a high weight capacity of supporting all kind of clients. The dark blue cover imitates leather. If Serena lies down on it, her body would be positioned at the height of Bernie's hips. Beside Bernie's stool is a folding hair obviously added there for the sake of their consultation. Bernie gently invites Serena to have a seat beside her. Serena notes Bernie's long thighs, how her knees point forward when she sits down. In this position, Serena is slightly taller.

"It seems you have lovely ideas for your birthday present." Bernie encourages Serena to speak at her own rhythm, genuinely interested.

Serena lets out a breath she did not know she was holding back. "Indeed, for, um, my 50th. Today," she fidgets, wanting to say everything at once.

"Happy Birthday," her voice is sincere, "I'm glad you included us in your celebration. How can I help you?" Bernie's eyes are kindly inquisitorial.

Unsettled at the reversed roles, Serena is usually the one asking questions, being the one in charge as a consultant surgeon. She is not used to be submitted to another person's list of interrogations and it feels peculiar.

"I need guiding, you see. I have a few ideas but I don’t know how to shape them. I mean, where do I even bloody start?" she tries to add motivation and a little bit of mocked defeat in her voice. Bernie maintains her interest, continues to display her warm smile.

"First, I wish to clarify something. Don't feel obligated to make an actual appointment," Bernie sets her elbows on her knees and focuses on Serena, who still does not look a hundred percent stress-free. "I know you are here for information only, for the time being."

"That is very nice of you."

"Why don't we start from the beginning? Do you already have tattoos?" Serena notices how Bernie tends to lift up her hands to accentuate her words.

"I don't." If the previous years hadn't been so catastrophic, Serena might have had the pleasure - and courage - of getting tattoos earlier. If only…

"No worries. Do you have a general project in mind?" Bernie subtly shakes her forelock away to avoid it from falling on her eyelids. The movement makes her shirt shift just a tad, just enough to reveal her clavicles and more ink on Bernie's skin. It looks like she has a massive piece on her chest, hidden by her clothes, and it immensely distracts Serena. She feels the foundation of a stammering forming in her throat.

"I'm not sure. I mean, I mean, I do have ideas here and there…" Serena's shoulders fall as she lacks in energy. She begins to think this is all a rather large mistake. Bernie does not seem impatient, nevertheless Serena becomes annoyed at her own self. She hates being in situations where she does not master all the finest details. Clearly, Bernie senses something and her eyebrows frowns at the questionable shift in the air. Serena sighs loudly, gathers her courage.   

To make it easier for both of them, the surgeon opts for candidness and emerges from behind her façade and tries to push away all of this introduction protocol.

"I've never thought of tattoos before, before, um, someone suggested it a few years ago. And honestly, I'm terrified. But I wish to go through with it. I really do. Would you mind terribly guiding me with the procedures, explaining the steps?"

"I'd be glad to, Serena. Nothing to worry about. That's what I'm here for." Bernie crosses her legs in order to be more comfortable. She even slightly bends forward on her stool chair, to get closer to Serena. Doing so, Bernie's skin is now aligned under a ray of light. It makes Serena shudder.

"Look at you." Serena's tone of her voice increases to a level of pure amazement. "You are superb. And quite intimidating, too. I reckon it must have taken years to get all of this done," she points to Bernie's sleeve and even manages to faintly point at her clavicle, "not to mention all the pain," her face grimaces as she pronounces that word and she adds her palm on her own chest as a recomfort, not daring to actually imagine all the pain.  

Bernie is relieved that Serena feels more relaxed, even if it means avoiding speaking about herself.

"Indeed. For years, my body was a continuous work in progress." 

"Striking, look at how harmonious it all is. You are beautiful."

"Thank you." Bernie looks proud.

Serena bends down towards Bernie's figure, forgetting about manners you need to maintain in front of a stranger. She stares at Bernie's forearm, even tries to focus her eyes, and, by habit, Bernie raises her arm to offer Serena a closer view. There is indeed a wolf and a crown, backgrounded with black spirals and loops, ornamented with a beautiful antique pocket watch. From this position, she is not able to see the other arm adequately and does not request. She unquestionably does not ask to see Bernie's clavicle tattoos.

"This is marvellous. How did you make it work? How were you able to put all these pieces together?" Serena's hands could speak for themselves, as she uses crooked fingers to picture her question and create imaginary piece of puzzles.

"It did take a while. The thinking as well as the inking. I started young…" Somehow, Serena recognized that Bernie hadn't meant to say this. "I mean, a vast project needs, uh, time and space, its, its better to start soon, with the healing in between to consider." She adds to correct herself while running her hand through her wild hair.

"Would you mind talking about it? I'd feel more comfortable if you shared your own experience."

Bernie does consider the suggestion, but she chooses to explain why doing so would be fruitless.

"Everyone has a different journey. Its incomparable. Motivation and inspiration are so personal. We are not at the same stage in our lives…" she is cut-off by an apologetic voice.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be a bother. You are right. Aren't you bored with your receptionist handing over seniors having a mid life crisis?" behind that question lies her insecurities, but her wittiness does not disappear. 

The throaty voice suddenly transforms into a beautiful and startling honk of laughter.

"Why would I be? A project is a project," she replies, laughing with her bouncing shoulders. "Besides, older clients have more ideas to discuss, more memories. I'm the eldest here, I'm guessing it helps to put adults at ease." She coughs a little to get back to her normal voice. Her eyes are teary from laughing. It enders Serena.

"In addition, we have a limited consultation time, we should get back to your questions."

"Right. Honestly, I feel less pressure if we focus more on the technicalities and your techniques rather than talking about me. I mean, all these spotlights are already setting up the interrogation session." she points to the neon's and lightbulbs. To Serena's liking, the lighting is intensively bright and it does remind her of the blinding lights in surgery rooms. She is not sure if she likes that association. Under these bulbs, nothing can be hidden, whenever its stretch marks, body hair, cellulite, varicose veins, freckles…

"What would you like to know about me that would make you more comfortable?" Bernie looks directly into Serena's eyes and they stare at each other, contemplative.

"So many things. I'm interested in your journey in this non-traditional field. How long have you been in the profession? But you just informed me that we don't have time for these questions, which is really unfortunate…" Serena looks fairly disappointed but still jubilant to the idea of learning about Bernie's feminist progression in the tattooing business. 

"We could discuss in the details the misogynistic mentality, the lack of formal training and regulations in the profession for hours, but I can assure you that I've been tattooing for ages and for more than five years here, in the certified Eternal-Inked shop." Bernie enhances.

Serena continues to stare with curiosity, hoping Bernie would carry on. It is fascinating to simply look at Bernie. She is truly stunning. Serena is grateful to witness such a specimen who might actually tattoo on her someday if only she could control her jitters. Serena feels herself dissociating, casually admiring Bernie as a rare masterpiece. Bernie blushes under these admiring eyes.

"If we are here today, its because of your birthday. Let's get back to that." Bernie tries to stay coherent and lead Serena into the purpose of their meeting. "There are many ways to start. Some people prefer to think about location and pain before the actual drawing. For example, shoulder blades are popular for firsts tattoos because it tends to hurt less and the position is relatively comfortable during the session. When your emplacement is selected, you can decide on the art. Its size, its color, its shading. On the other hand, some people come in with an art in mind and are looking for the appropriate body part to transfer it without customize."

"I'd be the customer who would think about the art beforehand. Afterwards, the body part."

"No problem. You said you had ideas?"

A dark shadow hovers through Serena's eyes, awaken by Bernie's reference to her project. Serena needs to speak about herself if she wants Bernie's guidance.

"I'm looking for a piece that reflects who I am, and where I'm going…" she gesticulates in order to accentuate her words, "but I can't put that down in drawings without your help."

"Let's brainstorm. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a consultant general surgeon here at Holby." Finally, Serena gradually regathers her assurance as her professional field is mentioned.  

Bernie lifts up her head, as if to pay her tribute. "Impressive," she even nods, "What else, Doctor?"

"It pretty much takes a lot of my time."

"Are you in a significant relationship?" Serena eyebrows lift up, her lips pursed. Bernie's seriousness turns into a playful smile. "I'm only asking for the purpose of brainstorm."

"I'm not intending on tattooing any former, present or future partner on my body, if this is where you are heading. Isn't that against the code of tattooist to do so?"

Bernie lifts up a hand in defeat and moves on to the next question with her usual gentle smile.  

"What are your habits when you are not too preoccupied by the Hospital?"

"Let's see. Shiraz. Oh, nothing takes the edge off like a glass of red wine," She even hums to show her own approval. Bernie carefully notices each of Serena's facial expressions. "Well, nothing besides coffee, that is…"

"Amen to that…" Bernie sets her elbows back on her knees, paying attention to Serena's regain of confidence.

"I enjoy spending my free time relaxing. A throw blanket with a good book. A nice meal with friends. Is…is this helping us elaborating a drawing?" Serena almost lowers her voice, suddenly insecure and unsure.

"It will."

Bernie's eyes are dark and profound, her face peaceful. Serena supposes she is already actively picturing diverse sketches. Oh, artists and stimulus. Although she feels comfortable around Bernie, Serena isn't ready yet to open up more about her story. She willingly gave away information about the surface, plenty of material to work with.

Understanding that the surgeon won't elaborate more, Bernie progresses.

"We could mix a little bit of the different parts of your life? Professional and personal, since you want a drawing that represents you."

"Good, good. But-but I want discretion. I don't want something that says 'hello I'm a doctor and I like wine'. How would that look in the operating room?" She giggles, pictures the wine glass drawn on her wrist.

"You'd have sceptical eyes looking in your direction." The thought immensely amuses Bernie.

"Or I'd see patients flee." Serena adds brightly.

"Indeed, they might. Usually, I tend not judge a book by its cover, but in your case…" Bernie mockingly crosses her arms and sneers.

In return, without thinking ahead, Serena playfully slaps Bernie's knees to defend herself. They savor this moment, both understanding that Serena feels more at ease.

"Um, what are your opinion about colors? I notice your arms are black and white…" Serena sets her eyes on Bernie's skin again.

"Well, it depends on the drawing and what you wish to represent. Never an obligation. It does tend to fade out but touch-ups are a possibility. There is no major difference in the process, other than having more instruments around for the colors. Colored tattoos tend to require more time to settle, I've heard customers complaining about experiencing more pain during the healing period. More ink, metal salts, minerals to manage..."

Serena nods. She dares to ask if Bernie has color tattoos.

"Me? Oh, no. My life is black and white, only." Again, Bernie runs her hand through her hair, as if the gesture would push away thoughts. Why does Serena senses something problematic behind that statement?

"Well, I'm hoping you mean in an aesthetic way…"

Chapter Text

Even if Serena's comment isn't actually a question, Bernie does not have a chance to either explain herself or change the subject, because the universe sends help, as a fellow tattooist, a short-haired brunette in her thirties, steps in Bernie's station, looking concerned. She is tall, slender, wears jeans and a black top. Her arms are covered in multicolored tattoos.

"Hi Bernie, um, sorry to interrupt. I notice you weren't in a session and, um…" she apologetically looks back and forth between Bernie and her client. Serena can sense her worry.

"What's up, Alex?" Bernie sighs, a little impatient but still welcoming her presence, looking at her colleague from her sitting position, waiting for clarifications.

"I'm looking for the hypafix, um, where are they stored? My box is empty."

Bernie laughs, not a joyful laugh, much like an I told you so tease.   

"You must always make sure you have enough supplies before your sessions, and the necessary materials must constantly be within easy reach." Following this statement, Bernie gets up and gestures at Alex. "I'll show you where they’re kept. I'll be there in a minute."

Oh, it’s remarkable how tall this woman is, Serena remarks, and the length of her thighs -  

Quickly, Bernie gets closer to Serena, contours her just enough to open a drawer behind her shoulders and takes out a binder before handing it out to Serena. The birthday lady wishes she could regain focus, as it is getting more difficult to concentrate with Bernie's tattoos being flagrant in her face. Oh, if only she could immobilize time and linger in this position, having a closer look at that sleeve.

"Would you fancy looking at my flash sheets while you wait? It could give you an idea of styles, shades, shapes.”

A slight frown appears on Serena's forehead, as if Bernie's speaking a foreign dialect. Serena fidgets on her seat. She is starting to feel more at ease but progressively understands so many information still needs to be gathered in order to prepare her for an eventual tattoo.

"It's a portfolio," Bernie speaks slowly, even inclines her head a little to avoid gesticulating too much, "of available drawings I suggest for people to custom or use as is. You can familiarize yourself with my style, see if it matches with your taste, or I could refer you to a colleague more suitable to your needs. Its up to you. No offense there."

Positioned like this, Serena actually feels intimidated, sitting down while Bernie stands just inches apart. Maybe it’s a tattoo artist tendency, no fear of intimacy. Is Bernie the one responsible for the wonderful aroma of coconut? From this proximity, her smell is more than pleasant.

Serena holds herself from reiterating the fact that she has no intentions of seeing any other artist, because it sounds strange to say so after such a rapid encounter. She is indeed curious to examine Bernie's work.

"I’d love to see the fruits of your labor. Thank you," she replies while accepting the portfolio with both hands. Bernie smiles, a genuine smile.

"Great, be back in a bit." She disappears from her sight, going to join Alex at her booth.

Serena catches her breath. Alone in Bernie's spick-and-span station, Serena looks around at the posters and art. The sign saying Get Inked or Die Naked makes her giggle.

Serena discovers numerous decoupaged sketches slipped inside sheet protectors. While some are quite minimalist, like flowers in bottles, some drawings are breathtaking, such as animal portraits mixed with various filigree frames. They are all pretty much realistic. The surgeon is highly impressed by the definition and precision. Bernie has a habit of using lots of dots instead of lines to fill and darken spaces and shapes.

Engrossed, she almost does not perceive the gentle voice behind her.

"Sorry about that. Alex's relatively new here and hasn't gotten the chance to be familiar with equipment arrangement in our studio."

Bernie gets back on her seat, carefully looks at Serena who is still inspecting the flashes. Bernie tries not to worry about the lack of response on Serena's side, enjoying this opportunity to respectfully observe Serena, trying to memorize specifics of her posture, such the type of clothing she wears and the details of her skin.

The prolonged silence is broken by the surgeon's genuine excitement towards Bernie's art.

"I'm impressed by the details you manage to add, the realistic touch. Honestly, I'd never expect such precision, especially on art destined to be portrayed on body parts," not taking her eyes off the sheets, Serena continues "I've operated on plenty of bodies and surprisingly all the tattooed skin I've encountered pretty much had all the same kind of tattoos…Asian symbols, flowers, tribal signs, quotes. What you do here is unique.”

The blonde is immobile, as if dubious, or cautious. Oh, has Serena insulted her? Has she disrespected the profession in any way?

“There are indeed a lot of different styles, American traditional, Japanese, Neo-trad, watercolour… I tend to draw more realistic or minimalist, but I’m open to plenty of styles…if, if you want something else.”

While still browsing the flash sheets, Serena is breathless. “This…this is art," Serena looks up, meets Bernie's watchful eyes. A glimpse of pride and relief can be seen in Bernie’s eyes as Serena hands back the portfolio.

"Thank you, Serena. Would, um, does, does my style matches with what you had in mind?” Bernie doesn’t wait for the answer before putting the binder back inside the drawer. As if she prefers to hide her nervousness behind Serena’s head.

“Actually, yes, Bernie. I’d love if we could collaborate.” Serena wonders what emotion are coloring Bernie’s face. When the artist gets back to her stool, serenity twinkles in her eyes.

“I’m glad. I hope you don’t feel pressured.”

“Not at all, actually.”

Hurriedly, Serena wonders how long they've been talking and thinks this is her cue for leaving.

“So, does it mean my time’s up?” the brunette asks.  

“No, no, we have a few more minutes. We need to address certain topics before my client arrives. Money, size and placement, which are all interconnected. Bigger it is, the more costly.”

“Oh, money isn’t a problem.”

“Alright. As a surgeon, you can’t risk having an exposed tattoo, with all the surgical procedures, cleansing, abrasion and all. You couldn’t operate for a while during the scabbing and healing period,” Bernie fears, almost putting a finger to her lips while thinking out loud.

“Oh I…I haven’t thought about these aspects.” That’s exactly why she is asking for advice, isn’t she?

“In your case, you’d be safer with the shoulder blade, back, upper arm, thighs. It’ll depend on the drawing we’ll come up with,” Bernie gestures with her hand in the air, as if saying they’ll have time to get to that point.

“Okay, so if we resume. Drawing first, placement after? I don’t mind the size. Could be small to rather large. Will the drawing change if, you know, the placement…”

“A drawing can change so much according to the placement and the person’s skin. But it’s fine, it’s the kind of challenge I crave. Let’s not worry about it for now.”

“It does? Change, I mean?” Serena can only imagine, but she’s like to hear Bernie on that matter.

“For example, yesterday, a woman wanted a tattoo on her back of her hand. A square window with the silhouette of a black cat sitting at the edge, with the tail sticking out on the beginning of her thumb". Bernie points the area on her own hand, retracing with a single finger the contours of the illustration.

"On paper, it’s feasible. But you can’t draw a perfect square on the hand. Turns out, my client accepted my suggestion of adding floating drapes to her window, making less four-sided than projected. And as the hand is constantly moving, the drapes would be in motion. She also loved how the cat's tail moved in sync with her thumb. It looked alive," she speaks with adoration of her work.

"It's very impressive and imaginative," Serena notes, a little taken aback by such requirement for originality, as much as she likes cats. "Is the hand a sensitive area?" she inquires, grimacing at the thought.

"It is quite painful actually, just like the feet, knee and elbow. Then again, sensitivity is different for everybody, depends on skin tissue,” following this statement, Bernie’s gaze lingers over Serena’s arms, hands and neck.

"Yes, um, about that… My skin, is it, um…" unintentionally, Serena starts toying with her necklace.

"You have lovely skin, Serena," Bernie hurries to say with a calming voice, as if she was holding back such a compliment, waiting for the opportunity to say it out loud.

Serena blushes. "Well, thank you," she fidgets on her seat, not knowing what to do with her hands. "Um, according to my age, where do you think is the suitable spot, for…for… aging skin?"

Bernie takes a while to reply because she seems to enjoy herself so much. Serena begins to feel self-conscious, of course tattooing is about your body, but she feels scrutinized.

"You’ll be happy to learn there is no such thing as an inappropriate spot when it concerns aging. You do realize that young folks inked on supposedly appropriated skin will age?"

Serena lowers her head, thoughtful. But Bernie quickly pursues.

“But again, Serena, your skin is quite lovely. Perfect material, thick, generous. It’s harder on people like me, all bones and moles.”

Serena feels her cheeks turning pink. Words fail her. All she can think about is Bernie’s bones and moles. And these arms, and maybe her eyes are saying what she is feeling, who knows, because she can’t help herself staring and blushing.

After a while, Bernie looks away, blushing as well and self-conscious. The artist is the courageous one to bring an end to their consultation.

“Do you have any other concerns before my client arrives?” Bernie gets up, placing her hands on each side of her own hips.

“Not that I can think of, but eventually, probably,” the surgeon admits, getting up. She feels dizzy, so much potential, so many options, her senses are enhanced.

“No worries. I’ll pitch some ideas for you in the next days. I might have more questions as we haven’t essentially talked about actual drawing. Charlotte will take care of you at the reception, we’ll need your email so I can send you sketches.”

“Thank you, um, Bernie, for this consultation. I feel much secured and confident, about all this process.” Serena moves towards the corridor.

“It got me thinking. What made you choose our tattoo parlor?” Bernie’s lovely eyebrows furrow in curiosity.

“The All Female Tattooist poster. Love to encourage ladies in non-traditional work fields. Always have.”

“Amen to that,” Bernie laughs, keeping her hands on each side of her hips, not leaving Serena’s gaze.

“Thank you again for your patience.”  

Prompt by a sense of accomplishment, Serena decides to offer a hand for a friendly hand-shake. Without hesitation on her part, Bernie gently takes Serena’s hand, shakes it firmly but tenderly.

“Happy Birthday Serena. I’m glad to be part of the celebration,” Bernie’s gaze is caring.

“Ah, thanks. Talk to you soon,” she replies, smiling and timid.

As she exits Bernie’s booth, she can hear the blonde preparing her workplace for her next client, taking out bottles and disinfectant and protective plastic sheets. While walking back bare socks towards the reception, she passes by Alex’s booth, who is leaning over her client, working on a woman’s calf. The customer looks slightly uncomfortable but does not move nor complain. So many instruments, skin, cables and noises from the machine pen. And it’ll be Serena’s turn soon, she grasps.

Passing through the wooden and lovely decorated swing door leading to the reception, Serena finds herself smiling to her ears. All of her anxiety is transformed into constructive and creative sentiments as her heartbeat accelerates.    

The turquoise walls appease her newfound enthusiasm and she is surprised by the lovely smell of herbs and sweets. She is reminded of the neighbor tea room at the adjacent door. Maybe she’ll stop by for a treat before heading home. It is, after all, her birthday. But first, she needs to talk to Charlotte, the receptionist.

Serena is surprised the reception area is so quiet, then remembers all clients are attended with their respective artists. As she puts her coat back on, she takes one last look at the decoration. Eclectic, daring, inventive. Its a significant change from her routine. A particular sign hanged on the turquoise wall catches her attention where it says if you find it cheaper elsewhere, we'll gladly fix it afterwards. She sneers.

At that precise moment, Charlotte calls Serena at the counter. Oh, yes, contact information.

“Alright Serena, got answers to your questions?” Charlotte looks open to chatter.

“Yes, indeed. Lots. Bernie’s quite something, isn’t she?”

Charlotte remains quiet for a small second before agreeing very cheerfully, feeling glad she’s created a good match between client and artist.  

“Indeed, she is. We are lucky to have her on our team. So, what’s the next step?” she asks, ready to prepare all the necessary.

“Bernie said she’d work on some drawings and send them over to me for approval,” sounds about right, doesn’t it?

“Amazing. Just give me your email, phone number and the deposit, and Bernie will be in touch,” Charlotte points out.

“I’m sorry, a what? A deposit?”

“Yes, the deposit. Artists drawing for customers isn’t free. That amount will be deducted from the final payment. Surely Bernie told you about it?” The receptionist looks at Serena in astonishment.

Did she? If she did, Serena completely forgot about it. Assuredly, she’d remember important information such as financial engagement and remuneration. She is pretty sure that issue wasn’t brought up.

“Oh, actually, no. But it’s fine. Of course. Um, how much?” Serena’s hand digs inside her pockets in order to fetch her wallet.

Charlotte sighs louder than she probably intended, because as soon as the complaint came out, she replaced it with a smile.

“I’ll ask her. Give me two seconds,” Charlotte adds before departing the reception, strolls through the artist’s booths behind the wooden paravent.

Serena feels like a statue, or maybe a gargoyle, hand in her pockets, waiting her cue to fetch out her money. Her eyes go from left to right, pending, a little confused.

A few seconds later, Charlotte returns to the reception, a fresh smile on her face, though there is an emotion Serena can’t name.

“Apparently, Bernie says it’s fine. You’ll just need to provide me your email address and phone number and you’ll be free to go,” Charlotte explains as she sits back behind her receptionist counter.

“I understand this is not normal procedure?”

“Not really. Consider it a birthday present, I guess? So, email and digits?”

After providing her personal information, Serena sends out numerous thanks, both to Charlotte and to Bernie for their assistance. At that precise moment, a young muscular man enters the shop, heads directly to Victorian couches and Charlotte nods at his sight.

“Bernie, your client’s here!” Charlotte’s unprofessional shout makes Serena wince, and then she realizes that man probably is a regular customer of Bernie’s. What a piece of a man! He looks like he knows what he’s doing, who undoubtedly ask uninteresting questions. Talk about scooping cases of women in mid-life crises. Oh, poor Bernie. Just as that thought makes her nervous and she heads in the direction of the exit, Serena hears Charlotte warn her.

“Oh, Serena! Don’t forget your boots.”

“Oh, silly me. Now you’ll blame my age and I’ll never hear the end of it!” What a charming way to leave a good impression. Serena mutters insults aimed at herself. The tea room can wait – Serena has tea at home - it seems like she needs to get her head straight at home.

***

Back home, Serena is grateful for the house cleaning done in the morning. The place smells wonderful and the absence of any domestic obligation allow her to completely surrender to her thoughts and think about her encounter with Bernie.

Oh, Bernie.

If Serena had any preparation to what kind of session awaited her, maybe she’s organized accordingly. She felt unprepared and probably looked disorderly. Poor Bernie who must think Serena’s a foolish woman not knowing what she is getting herself into. Is that why she hadn’t required a deposit? Is she doubting Serena’s engagement?

As the water boils and the tea awaits, Serena tries to focus on art and brainstorms. For the time being, Bernie has carte blanche about pretty much anything concerning drawings. She did insist to mention a piece about her professional and personal life. That offers a lot to ponder, as the first is gaining ground on the second. Her almost nonexistent personal life. Mustn’t be that terrible to grant so much energy to a career? Is it what tattoo artists go through, too?  Define themselves by their career? At first glance, it’s clear as crystal what profession is Bernie’s, but Serena would be amazed if people can guess her profession at the hospital just by glancing at her. How tiring it must be, to be so open with the world about yourself by having your body covered with art? Or is it a time saver, a warning, a resume of your life and your interest?

Her tea ready, she brings it to the living room and lowers herself on her couch, mindful of lifting up her feet in a comfortable position. These thoughts lead Serena into considering what Bernie’s routine must be like. She must own a motorcycle. Serena thinks she saw a motorcycle parked in front of the tattoo shop. Yes. Oh, and bulldogs. Bernie must have bulldogs as pets. Skeleton posters at home? A pentagram or the anarchist symbol on her shower curtains?  

Oh, if only Serena had known what kind of person would’ve greet her, advise her, observe her. If only she knew it would be woman relatively of same age, but so incredibly intimating and gorgeous. Never before – okay, apart from that episode in Stepney – did Serena felt so taken aback at the sight of such an attractive and impressive woman. Never before has Serena seen a woman like Bernie. Who has the privilege of gazing the tattoos on her body, is there anybody who knows them by heart? What kind of boyfriend would share her life?

And theses tattoos on her arms, her chest, and who knows where else? What are their stories? Bernie mentioned how young she started, and how her life is mainly black and grey.

Groaning, Serena runs her hands all over her face, as if the gesture would wash away her reveries. Her stomach grumbles, and that’s the queue she needs. Picking up the phone, she clicks on the speed-dial of her favorite pizza delivery. She can indulge herself on her birthday. She schedules dull movies on her Netflix and decides not to think about tattoos for the remaining of the day. Tomorrow awaits a long day at work and she wants to be well rested. Plus, she has no idea what kind of cake Jason will bring.

***

During the night, or very early in the morning, as Serena is deep asleep, satiated and content, dreaming of bulldogs and ink bottles, she receives an email.

Chapter Text

At her scheduled time, Serena wakes up with a dissolving impression of a pair of large eyes filled with gentleness and wisdom. A souvenir of moles and coconut.  With a loud grunt, the brunette navigates in her wide – and empty – bed in search of her phone, trying to put a stop to the incessant alarm.

With semi closed eyes, she successfully finds her phone, shuts the beeping off and notices a new email in her reception box, but the time on the clock is definitely her current preoccupation. She doesn’t even notice the sun peeking through her bedroom window. Out of bed, she starts her morning routine. It’s a choreography implemented for years; it can be accomplished by a sleepwalker.  Serena’s spirit is rooted in the disposition of this house, its furniture and its decoration. She knows by heart each measure, all the gaps and contours.

While her body is still in her bedroom, her mind gets ready for today’s schedule. She undresses, showers, eats breakfast, gathers finalized paperwork, keys and purse. Everything is hurried and mechanical, leaves barely a thought for herself.

At the hospital, the walls emit a permanent yet reassuring smell of disinfectant and steel, mixed with freshly brewed coffee, a concoction unconsciously appreciated by employees. It’s only when Serena finds herself in line, waiting for her regular coffee at Pulse’s when she navigates through her phone calendar that she is reminded of the awaiting email in her inbox.

Uninterested, she looks it up. The sender is The Wolfe. Curious, she stares at the unknown name for an instant and intuition decides to click on the message. As if a portal would aspire her body in the traveling of time, she remembers absolutely everything, every detail, every word of yesterday. Her clumsiness, her eagerness, her shyness. The moles, the turquoise and the noise of the tattoo pens. Immediately, her sleepy state evaporates, sets space for total awakening.

Of course, Bernie! The Wolfe. Is this her artist name? She’ll have to look it up. How come Bernie got in touch so soon? Serena would have never suspected such a quick development. The email was sent at 3h10am. Wow, now that’s impressive! Serena presumes Bernie is a night owl. There was a time where Serena, too, preferred the atmosphere of the night, with the passing of Elinor. Mourning plays with perception, it likes to fusion dreams, nightmares and awareness. Night is a moderate companion, quiet, lonely, and it offers a sort of peacefulness, where Serena could decide to exist or not, through the shadow of stillness. Hastily, she shakes her dark thoughts away.

Maybe Bernie suffers from insomnia? Preoccupied and staring at her screen, Serena doesn’t notice the strange look on the Barista’s face when she hands out her usual coffee, but Serena murmurs her customary thank you as she absentmindedly walks away.

Serena feels transformed as soon as her lips touch her coffee. Trying not to drop her phone, she enthusiastically reads the message with attention.

“Hello Serena. This is Bernie from Eternal-Inked. Just checking your info to add in my contacts. Don’t hesitate if you have any concerns. Talk to you soon. PS: I’ve set a reminder in 364 days to wish you Happy Birthday.”

Oh, how a simple greeting memo can uplift your spirits, especially after your birthday. She sends a quick friendly reply. Confidently, Serena sets her phone back in her coat pocket. Feeling reassured, this will be a productive day. 

***

Serena may or not regret her career choice. Throughout her shift, for obscure reasons, surprising hitches awaited her at every corner. Nothing tragic, no car pileup nor plague, rather near-death experiences from imprudent human mistakes such as unattended ulcers, severe dehydration and neglected intake of daily medication. A reminder of the fragility of one’s life, but also of the conceivable imprudence one can manifest.

Serena’s supervisor obligations and her continuous vigilance inclined her to drink more coffee than ever before, as her bladder keeps reminding her. Impossible to find the slightest moment for meditation during this hectic day. Fighting an impending migraine, after congratulating her team for their perseverance in making this day less problematic, Serena is resigned to head home.

During her drive back, the only thoughts swirling in her mind concern the hospital. Files to archive, cases to supervise, instructions to review about convalescence. Both concrete and theoretical. Of course, the surgeon enjoys a mixture of hand work and brain work, even if some days she’d prefer either to isolate in her office or either work in the surgical room, but she can’t control the odds. Oh, how tired she feels, as if her feet were still pirouetting on the hospital floor. At a red light, she even yawns. Is it because another candle got added to her cake?

Oh, the cake! By reflex, Serena almost presses on the foot accelerator. She fears the day isn’t quite over yet. She may be a doctor, even if it comes with a frantic schedule, but Jason is still very keen on punctuality. With an exhausted smile on her tired face, Serena opens the front door only to be greeted by her nephew a few seconds later.

“Happy belated birthday Serena. You are late,” he points out, not erasing his contentment in seeing his aunt.

“Pardon me, Jason. I lost track on time. It was a rather busy day.”

“I notice yesterday was also a busy day as you’ve cleaned the first floor. I appreciate the tidiness of the kitchen,” Jason comments.

“Yes, well, it had to be done.”

“Are there any chores you’d like me to improve?” he asks while Serena puts away her coat and boots. She follows him towards the kitchen.

“You’re doing enough already, my dear boy.” She pats his shoulder, one of the few gestures of affection he tolerates.

Something different in the kitchen makes her stop in her tracks. It takes a few seconds before she understands the surprise elaborated by Jason. Colorful helium balloons – probably a dozen – are attached to various objects in the room. In the middle of the wooden table, attached to the fruit bowl, floats an enormous ‘50’ in bright red. It reflects the accent lightning. Two party hats are disposed on the counter, Jason takes one, puts it on his head and hands one to Serena.

“This is what people are supposed to do for birthdays. And since you were alone yesterday, we can do this tonight.”

Small tears gather in the corner of her eyes as Serena is genuinely moved by her nephew’s attention. He looks adorable with the paper hat askew on his head.

“Oh, Jason, this is perfect. It’s so lovely and festive, I don’t know what to say…”

“Well you can put this on, then.”

She does, and takes a seat as Jason sets the table ready with utensils and plates. Jason has ordered food and a cake as he proudly explain while they eat in harmonised appetite. He talks about his day, proposes a few advices about how to handle mid-age and asks how Serena occupied her birthday, other than house cleaning.

“I haven’t been completely alone, to tell you the truth. I made plans for a project,” she confesses, mouthful with cake, hesitating to go further with the subject.

“What kind of project?” He sounds sincerely interested.

“A rather long-term project. You see, Jason, I’m not familiar with your opinion about tattoos.”

“Tattoos? I heard they are expensive and dangerous if not made responsively, and it needs special care.”

“Indeed. But the studio I found is rather reliable, and don’t forget that I am a doctor, I am ready for any, um, complications, if complications will happen.” She can’t really imagine what would these complications be, since Bernie or Charlotte haven’t talked about them, so far.

“I understand. What will be the drawing?”

“I’m not sure yet. You see, an artist meets with you, discuss about what you look for, and then they create a custom piece for you.”

“How can a stranger know what you want?”

“I…don’t know, actually. They put pieces together, I guess. They do this for a living, they have a few tricks.”

“How many times have you meet with the artist?”

Dark and grey arms, these slender lines swirling around her biceps and elbow. The pocket watch, the crown, the wolf, the forest…

“Um, once, actually.” The room begins to feel warm and Serena feels dizzy. Probably too much proteins too rapidly after a hard-working day. Serena pushes away her plate. “But we’ll be in touch. I’m sure she will have questions, as will I.”

After helping with the dishes and removing the balloons, Jason withdraws in his room. They both decided to leave the bright red balloon in the center of the room, at least for the remaining of the week.

As the huge ‘50’ calmly floats mid-air, the brunette smiles. She loves her house and appreciates how it has the capacity to evolve over the years, over the events. It might be conventional (but not traditional with the BBQ, dog and husband), but it isn’t stereotypical. The history occurring between these walls wasn’t typical either. Not always fortunate. Of course, if Elinor were still here, maybe her youth would reflect in the ornamentation, in the dynamic, more contemporary than modern. Sometimes, when Serena concentrates on the silence, she can recreate Elinor’s laugh echoing on the walls of the living room. When she closes her eyes, she can sense her mother’s presence attending in the kitchen. How strange it is, to be the person in the middle of a deceased mother and a departed daughter, as if superior forces couldn’t comprehend life isn’t supposed to align in this direction. In the heart of distress, if Serena concentrates sufficiently, she can recall the summer breeze coming in through the patio door, caressing her skin. Likewise, she can recollect and enjoy the thunders of a rainstorm pounding on the windows. A calming process useful in the past years. The superficiality of a house can change, fresh paint and new furniture, but its essence stays the same, by dint of memories.

To this day, she feels content and takes pride in the ease with which she can navigate through these memories and the rooms of this house. No longer emotionally defeated by the tragedies of her life, she understands she can always rely on change to support her. And the big red balloon is an illustration of time soothing injuries.

Why would her body be different than her house? Serena carries her abode, the in-progress tale of her life, displays the manifestation of herself. Her body is a comrade, a support and occasionally a weakness. She empathizes with turtles and snails bearing their armature on their back. Although, she hopes she does not compare to their weight and leisureliness.

As a surgeon working on the human body, she has seen it so many times in the past: the body being an expression on the identity but also an outline of choices and accidents, offers promising future and carries the past. Being able to make clear decisions of permanent acts on the body offers a sense of strength. Saying so, her minds drifts to Bernie, recapturing her body of similar age and it moves Serena greatly. Being inked to express our own story requires assurance and sensibility.

Walking up the stairs, she meets Jason who promises he will only watch the evening news before going to bed. Serena thanks him again for the surprise, affectionately taps his shoulder, and wishes him goodnight. 

The surgeon gets ready for bed. As she puts on her pyjama top, her fingers linger over the scars on her back and shoulders. Her wide eyes immediately search for her phone, as she needs to address this matter to Bernie as soon as possible. She writes a second email to The Wolfe and she decides to go straight to the point.

“Hi. It’s Serena again. Forgot to mention, no drawings on my back as it has scars here and there. Don’t want it to affect your work. Enjoy your evening.” Clicks on the send button, immediately regrets the length of the message. Why does she feel this urge give so much so quickly to this Bernie?

Brushing her teeth takes longer than normal. Flossing teeth and scrubbing her tongue and refreshing her breath. Focus on anything else than this Bernie, drawings and skin. Serena’s skin, to be precise. Her cellphone emits the sound of a text message. Wondering if it’s the hospital, Serena takes no time in reading her screen, toothbrush still in her mouth.

“No problem Serena, thanks for letting me know. How are you?”

As the sees the message, she almost chokes on her toothpaste. Coughing, moping her face, after nearly dying, she goes back to her bedroom with her cellphone.

Surprised by the change in method of communication, Serena switches to texts to follow Bernie’s lead, decides it might be more convenient for the artist. She files “The Wolfe” in her contact list. Lying flat on her stomach over the blankets of her bed, she prepares a reply. For good measures, Serena refrains from flooding Bernie under a pile of words.

“Good, and you?”

Okay, too short? But she receives an answer instantly.

“Great, working on a few ideas for you, in fact.”

It makes Serena blush. This is uncharacteristic, because Bernie is only doing her work using previously discussed private matters, which is exactly what she is (will) be paid to do.

“Can’t wait to hear about them,” her fingers have a hard time hiding her jitters. Gathering her courage, Serena asks if they could call instead of sending texts.

After an awkward absence, Bernie finally texts back. “Sure, give me a second.”

Entering call, The Wolfe, appears on screen.

“Hello Bernie,” Serena says as she accepts the call, unable to hear her own voice.

“Serena,” the low throaty sound. Bernie coughs to clear her throat before continuing to speak. “There is no shame about scars, you understand? We all have different stories. They can be incorporated in the drawing.” As Bernie mentions it, Serena is reminded of that patient, a few months back, who covered a particular scar with a tattoo.

“I remember doing a procedure on a patient. As I was preparing her lower back, I realized she had a spilled red wine glass tilted aside over purple bruise. I’ve giggled so much, it was brilliant. And the woman wore it proudly.” She remembers the sentiment of lightheartedness offered by that patient to all her surroundings with such a clever tattoo over such a dramatic staining.

“I knew you’d understand,” Bernie laughs.

They discuss for a few minutes. In the miniature pauses between their exchange, Serena can hear Bernie work. Crumpled papers, pencil on surface. Blonde lock of hair falling over her symmetrical face, the silhouettes on her arms coming to life as she draws, concentrating on her art. Well, Serena imagines.

“So, that necklace. It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” There is bit of hesitance in Bernie’s voice.

Serena’s heartbeat accelerates. How come Bernie remembers a detail like the necklace she wore on the day they met? What else does she remember? From how observant the blonde is, the brunette feels naked. Get inked or die naked has never been truer.

“It does, yes,” melancholia reflects in Serena’s voice. Her fingers unconsciously play with the jewelry. She lets out a nervous breath, immediately regrets it. She closes her eyes, waiting for Bernie’s reply.

“May I use it in the draft? Well, a suggestion, with what I have in mind.”

“I trust you. And I haven’t given you much material to work on, I’m afraid, as I managed to make a fool of myself with plentiful of questions.”

As if Bernie is lifting a caring hand in the air to interrupt Serena, she reassures her. “It’s fine Serena. Don’t worry.”

“And how come you remember the necklace?” Serena wonders.

“Well, as you mentioned, I don’t have much material to work on,” her voice is playful, “so I googled you, knowing you work at Holby’s hospital. I saw your picture, an older picture, but you were wearing that necklace. I figured,” Bernie continues to work with papers and pencils, sounds happening around her.

“Good work, my dear Watson,” Serena is impressed. Bernie sure goes to great length for her costumers. “What else have you discovered about the consultant general surgeon and formerly Holby General Hospital’s deputy CEO?”

“Not much, to my liking,” Bernie confesses.  

Serena switch positions in her bed, lies down on her back, staring at the ceiling, but not actually paying attention to it. Her mind recreates the image of Bernie. She sees these large eyes filled with gentleness and wisdom.

“Well, I’ll have to make it even and google you, too,” Serena teases.  

“Only fair,” Bernie encourages.

“Mind you, it’s something I should have done beforehand. Imagine, I might find out you’re out of prison.”

“Ha! Associate tattoos with prisoners? Then again, you’d never refuse a woman the opportunity of a respectful job. Self-employed, making art instead of crimes, am I right?” Bernie seems pleased with her assumption.

“Well, I’ll just have to find out when I’ll read your bio. Are you known as The Wolfe online?”

“Yes,” and there is a noise in the background, like a muffled voice and it’s distracting Bernie, “and as much as I love chatting with you, I gotta go.”

“Saved by the bell, aren’t we?” Is Bernie at work? At home, with somebody?

“Duty is calling. But don’t worry, I won’t text at three o’clock in the morning with ideas. If I have to brainstorm, it’ll be emails.”

“I appreciate. You know how surgeons need their beauty sleep.”

Bernie mutters, a few times even, before managing a “Good night.”

“You as well,” Serena ends the call with a smile.

However, sleep can wait as her curiosity guides her towards googling The Wolfe. Why not? Serena has earned the right, besides it’s not one-sided. She finds the website rather simple, nothing too elaborated, just the essential. It’s minimalist, black and grey (Bernie has been true to her word) but it offers pictures of healed tattoos of all kinds, drawings made on canvas through the years. She navigates through the portfolio, notices Bernie won various prizes in competitions, and finds the About Me section. Her finger, hovering over the screen, twitches before clicking.

The page loads and a stunning picture of Bernie appears. It’s in black and grey (no surprise). Her arms are folded in front of her, her gaze directed at the camera, her eyes sparkle an invigorating energy and she reveals a smirk on the side of her lips. It seems to be an older picture, from another area, because Serena is certain Bernie currently wears more ink around her wrists and the forest seems incomplete, from the angle the image is taken. As she swipes up to see more details in the bio, Serena discovers Bernie hasn’t always been tattooing, as the description explains. She spent many years serving in the force. Major in the Army, to be precise.

Until, her regiment was disastrously caught in a criminal explosion and it forced her premature retirement from a promising career. In order to balance the dark side and the brighter side of the universe, to restore hope, Bernie finally turned to what has always profoundly driven her: art and devotion, permanency and being true to yourself. The solution: tattooing, an opportunity to connect with people and help them in their intimacy. The bio also mentions of using art to fight her demons, to channel her creativity and assist her clients overcoming their nightmares.  

The emotions gathering in Serena’s chest, accumulating in her throat, are particular. It affects her breathing, both reassuring (as if she’s starting at a picture of a dear longtime friend) and exhilarating (as she is slowly gathering information about an intriguing stranger, potentially a friend).

Knowing a tiresome day awaits her tomorrow, Serena encourages herself to interrupt her browsing as her eyes begin to fatigue. By instinct, she goes back to the top of the page in order to look at Bernie’s picture once more. She smiles, before closing the page and setting her alarm.  Comforted, she settles under the soft covers, closes the light, and dreams of Bernie at her side, gesticulating with her hands and telling stories of the army.

***

Bernie and Serena adopt an unforeseen but welcomed routine. They send at least one text per day, a salutation, sometimes very short, sometimes longer that alters into phone calls. These are Serena’s favorites. As Bernie’s scheduled is frenzied, she hasn’t had time to come up with a satisfying draft, none she felt proud enough to show Serena, despite Serena’s insistence to let her take a peek.

“You won’t disturb your patient until the surgery is finalized, right?”

“True.”

They haven’t come up with a tattooing session date yet, as Serena had to book last-minutes conferences in the upcoming weeks. It’s been one month since Serena’s birthday. They came to a mutual decision not to rush the process, to wait for their respective schedules to clear up, as it often does after autumn for Eternal-Inked where clients spend their money on Christmas shopping rather than tattoos.

Bernie and Serena enthusiastically discover they have a lot in common. The human body is their specialty as they are in contact with skin every day. They aren’t afraid of blood and are perfectly aware of the pain they can inflict on their patients (with anesthesia, it’s avoidable for the surgeon) and clients (difficult to avoid for the tattooist). Their titles also tend to make people nervous and sweat, but they reassure every person who’d come to them for assistance, the encounters often ends up in hugs, rarely in catastrophe (Bernie hadn’t asked if Serena lost patients on the operating table and Serena hadn’t asked if Bernie failed a tattoo, but of course the answer to these questions is yes).

Turns out, Bernie does not own bulldogs, but Serena didn’t ask about motorcycle nor the pentagrams. So far, their exchanges politely stay on the subject of their career and Serena’s forthcoming sketch.

This evening is a phone call rather than a text. Bernie seems tired and preoccupied, and Serena offers a distraction. She talks about administrative procedures she doesn’t agree with, compliments the improvement of a certain F1s and even discuss the weather. But Bernie still seems tense, and maybe she’d like to unburden herself.

“So, your clients… any older newbies?” If Bernie could see Serena’s face, she’d laugh at Serena’s eyebrows waving as a mocker.

“No, no, just one at the moment, who is taking much of my time,” she teasingly emphases on the word ‘much’. The vocal range of Bernie’s voice, so throaty and mysterious, sends involuntary shivers down her spine.

“Am I that complicated?”

“Yes, and it’s positive. At least it makes my brain work. Ugh, I just want a break from mandalas and matching designs and quotes,” Bernie rubs her hand over her face, groans in her palm. Rarely Bernie demonstrates her moods, especially the grumpy ones.

“Surely this isn’t what’s troubling you?”

A silence creeps between the two women, like a hypothetically dangerous snake slithering at their ankles, but it turns out the snake is innocent, it only passes from one place to another, where it intuitively must go. And the designed place is of Bernie’s choosing, and the destination is a revelation. Bernie decides to open up to Serena.

“It’s my son,” Bernie exhales so loudly it almost hurts Serena’s ear. So, she has children.

“Oh, is he okay? Is everything alright?” Serena worries. Her posture even straightens up form where she is seated in her living room, ready to pounce.

“Yes, he’s fine. It’s just… we don’t get along,” Bernie sounds hurt. She talks faster than her usual pace.

“Oh…” Serena refrains from speaking, not daring to interrupt Bernie’s vulnerable moment.

“We’ve tried. I try, but it just doesn’t…” Bernie sniffs, rubs her face once more, mumbling her words.

“I’m so sorry. You’ve seen him today?”

“Yes, he, um, picked up Charlotte. They carpool together up to their dad’s place. Charlotte was running late. When Cameron reluctantly got in the shop to pressure her to get going, he completely ignored me. It has been more than a year since I’ve seen him, and he rejected me with such vigor,” Bernie expresses her sorrow once more, turns her face away from the phone, even if Serena can’t see the tears forming in her eyes.

“I…I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still stings, you know?”

“Yes, I know… I can imagine. Oh, Bernie, I’m so sorry,” there is so much she’d like to say, but she is limited, sitting in her living room, so far from Bernie’s distress. Besides, she doesn’t know Bernie that well, isn’t familiar with what could solace her soul.

“Is there anything I can do?” she questions. Maybe meet for a drink?

“No, um, thanks,” she blows her nose (so she has been crying), “I’d better get back to work. I have a five-hour color session tomorrow and I need to prepare,” Bernie explains.   

“I understand. Call me, if you need anything, alright Bernie?” Serena is worried, feels useless, deprived of means to help.

“Yes,” Bernie answers rapidly, vaguely, ashamed.

“Promise me.” Serena’s tone is insistent, serious, caring. Unconsciously, she is sitting at the edge of her sofa, pending for Bernie’s promise.

“Yes,” Bernie replies with more confidence, more of trust.

“Thank you. Try to sleep well nevertheless. No doodles at three in the morning,” she advises.

“Talk to you tomorrow. Thank you, Serena.” The call ends, and Serena wipes away the sweat of her forehead with the back of her hand.

***

The multicolored autumn leaves have almost all fallen on sidewalks and lawns. Serena loves the smell of change, of seasons transforming, and appreciates the crunching noise under her boots. She inhales a full breath of the cold morning air, happily looks around the hospital ground at the entrance of Holby’s hospital. She is prepared for a tedious day. Nothing can distract her motivation.

Her pocket vibrates, she takes out her phone. The Wolfe. Oh, a morning email. It’s been a while since they’ve exchanged emails. Serena is relieved to hear from Bernie. As she been able to sleep at all last night?  

Serena opens the email. “Here’s the sketch. Tell me what you think.”

Serena nearly ran into the glass doors of the main entrance of the hospital.  

Chapter Text

Serena isn’t aware of her surroundings, not even prompted by the smell of freshly brewed coffee emanating from Pulse’s.

These are not the words Serena anticipated to read on her phone. Internally, she rather hoped for updates on Bernie’s state after the incident with her son. The rush of adrenaline passes through her organism like a robust wave, and the backlash of the waters receding is also stealing away her enthusiasm. She does not feel ready to open the file, yet.  

At the precise moment, Serena realizes that Bernie’s happiness is more important than the tattoo sketch. Her preoccupations are directed towards this newly-found bond rather than the initial goal of professional benefice. Judging from the hour the email has been sent (late last night or early this morning), it just proves Bernie suffered from insomnia, again. Has she been crying herself to sleep? Was she able to find the strength to go about her occupations after suffering the brusque specter of her son?

The enclosed file containing the drawing isn’t capturing Serena’s attention as much as it should. Her thoughts concentrate about Bernie’s anguish. Serena tries her hardest to refrain from imagining various scenarios of Bernie pacing back and forth in the studio, with tears smeared away with the back of her hand.

Even from the minimum information Serena learned about Bernie’s relationship with her son, she comprehends how much a mother’s heart can suffer. Idiotic fights and flamboyant outburst of rebellion from Elinor always left Serena trembling from distress. Serena has seen it all: name calling, preferring Edward, drug use, ignoring phone calls, getting expelled from school, etc. But nothing could even compare to being denied in such a disrespectful manner, rejected on a period of years instead of months. What could be the nature of this feud?

Again, the barista at Pulse’s is offering her a strange look when Serena doesn’t look up from her phone to take her usual coffee from the young woman’s hand. Still, Serena mumbles a distant thank you.

Not sparing a moment, Serena decides to text Bernie.

“I see you’ve been kept busy. But please tell me how you’re doing, after yesterday’s event, okay?”

The caffeine entering her system is helping the gathering of her thoughts in a more productive way, pushing away the worries about her friend, allowing her worries to focus on her patients, while waiting for Bernie’s reassuring reply.

---

The hospital encounters one of the most peaceful day of the season. Such an encouraging observation would put a smile on Serena’s face. It does, but it’s not as satisfactory as it should be. Serena would never hope for tragedy but she’d appreciate, at the least, the diversion of employee’s drama or a rumor mill to occupy her thoughts and hands. Any distraction that could rescue her by offering an excuse not to open the awaiting file in her email and not to think about Bernie.

Thinking of Bernie has been a major occupation since their first encounter. Sure, Serena admits it, Bernie is a sight for the eye, as an intriguing and intimidating mature woman working in a non-traditional field. But these days, Bernie is also a source of reflection because of everything they have in common. The fondness felt towards each other through the routine of looking forward to their evening texts or calls.

If only Bernie could answer, reassure that she is alright. What if she isn’t?

But Serena needs to accept the evidence. She hasn’t answered Bernie’s email either, and the artist is probably waiting for her input before giving out any further information, especially of personal nature.

As all patients are stabilized, as nurses and F1s go about their business, Serena secludes in the privacy of her office in order to look at the first draft of the drawing. Are her shoes loudly thumping on the floor or is it her heartbeat echoing in her ears?

Nervous, the surgeon closes the door of her office. She does not need to close the curtains even though she feels this is one of the most intimate moments of her life.  She takes a seat at her desk and freezes. What will happen if Serena does not like the drawing? Oh god, will Bernie be insulted? And just how do you mention to a person who has been working for you free of charge that their efforts were fruitless? Can Serena ask for modifications? Creativity is so different from the application of medical procedures. In rare cases can the patient suggest another path suggested by the doctors. Worse, what if Serena does like the drawing, what then? It will be inked, and the amiable relationship build in the last week will vanish, like a patient sent away into convalescence?  Her stomach clenches from anticipation as Serena thinks of the possibility of the evening discussions ending. With the sketch being finalized, will it put an end to these exchanges?

Oh, dear Bernie. From the selfish lack of response on Serena’s part, the artist is probably wondering if the surgeon might withdraw from the project. After all, weren’t they waiting for this exact moment? The disclosure of the art? Serena owes to Bernie a reply, at least to say if they are on the right path. Maybe Bernie is in need of reassurance herself for all her efforts?

Suddenly, the cellphone vibrates in her hand, making Serena jump in her chair. It is a text from Bernie.

“I’m okay. Sorry about yesterday. It wasn’t professional.”

As her trembling hand holds up the phone, Serena stares at the screen in concern. Finally, an answer. But worrying about being unprofessional? Bernie really thinks confiding about her son wasn’t professional?

“Unprofessional? Bernie, I think we’ve passed that stage, don’t you agree?”

Serena deeply hopes Bernie understands this is an observation, a rhetorical question. But what truly links Bernie and Serena? Is it solely limited only to the needs of the transaction? Surely, Bernie doesn’t mean this. She probably is embarrassed about yesterday, although why would she be?

“You’re still my big macho army tattooist, even if you displayed some softness.” Serena tries to find a proper emoji, uses the wink. Instantly, she wonders if she went too far with this tease, but can’t find it in herself to feel remorse. Her skin even starts to warm. Uh oh.

“Always at your service,” the tattooist comments back, also adding the emoji wink. Uh oh, indeed. Better get a move on.

“I’m sorry I haven’t had a quiet moment to look at the sketch. Will do in a few minutes and I’ll let you know.” Campbell, what does it imply when you start using innocent lies to escape a situation?

“Sure, and don’t forget, we can make changes to the original design. I’m about to start my extensive color sessions. I’ll check in on you this evening.”

Okay, she can do this. The world shuts down around her. Time for the moment of truth, Serena affirms as she inhales loudly, filling her lungs. She opens the file.

This is an almost solemn unveiling. Majestic serenity takes hold of Serena as soon as her mind records what her eyes are seeing on the screen. It takes a few seconds to process the image in front of her, created by her friend. In black and white, a perfectly detailed and proportioned heart is located in the center of the image, suspended in the air. Without being too graphic in the definition of the vessels and the tissues of the muscular walls, the heart is realistic, with its shadows and folds. The veins that descend downward are defined by simple fine lines and the ventricles aren’t too thick to disturb the eye.

Around the heart, like an embrace, is Serena's necklace, sheltering. Behind the floating heart, as a background, is drawn an ancient page of newspaper whose contours are not squared but rather worn, aged, wrinkled. It looks like a sheet of history, a symbol of antiquity whose letters are blurred, some are larger, others smaller. In some places, sentences are represented by horizontally extended lines with ups and downs, like the lectures of an electrocardiogram.

As the sketch is taking place in Serena’s brain, it is now Serena’s own heart to welcome the picture in its center. And then suddenly, Serena’s lungs fill with fresh air, a dizzying lightness, as if all the scattered pieces of her life are finally reunited in the same place, in the appropriate setting.

Elinor.

Elinor’s heart.

Elinor’s dream of being a writer.

The drawing generates a magical mixture of melancholy and serenity, triggering tremors from deep within as Serena feels a burning sensation at the tip of her fingers, a tingling in her legs, and a lump in her throat. How can a drawing appeal so perfectly, evoke so much?  

How? How Bernie managed to come up with this idea? Feeling intoxicated from amazement, Serena starts to cry against her better judgement. The tears simply fall. Everything is so raw, so painfully intimate. This is what Bernie sees when thinking about Serena? These are the creative imaginings coming to Bernie’s mind when Serena occupies her thoughts?  

How a stranger can eloquently know so much about you? How can a simple stranger understand you better than any one dear to you? Serena’s romantic side is fighting with her rational side, a fight taking place in her troubled head. Serena’s rational side even have questionable worries. Maybe Bernie does have pentagram and formulates incantations to see through people’s souls?

Too many emotions are coming to life in Serena’s mind, as she lets out disturbed breaths and tears are blurring her vision.

Then, if summoned by superior forces, a knock on the door brings her back to the present time. After knocking, not waiting for a greeting, Jason enters, intruding on Serena’s emotional roller-coaster. Of course, he notices her preoccupied state.

“Jason, when you knock on a door, it is polite to wait for your cue before entering,” the tone of her voice is upset, but her face is soft, since she is wiping away her tears with a tissue, before blowing her nose.

“Auntie Serena, are you crying?” Jason’s features soften, different from his typical uptight posture.

“No, I mean, yes,” she sighs, manages a weak but sincere smile, “give me a second to recollect.” There is no where to hide.

Jason doesn’t move an inch, standing in the doorway, waiting for his cue.

“You can still come in, my dear. Sit, close the door,” she gestures with her hand before blowing her nose one last time, recollecting herself.

He does, and takes place on the sofa beside the entrance.

“What is it?” he asks. Serena is moved by the concern in his voice.

“The tattoo. The artist sent me the drawing,” Serena can feel her reddened cheeks, the puffiness of her eyes and the emotions in her throat.

“Oh, you mean Bernie finally managed to come up with a suggestion?”

“We weren’t in any rush, really,” she clarifies.

“And it makes you cry?” He frowns, concerned. It’s amazing how quickly his display of emotions can adapt to the conversation.

Not having the current strength to elaborate in words, Serena hands out her cellphone to her nephew, allowing him to make his own conclusions. As he cautiously takes the phone, he observes the drawing, quickly smiles up to Serena with bright eyes.

“This is amazing. Elinor wanted to be a journalist, right?”

So, he does see it, too. Serena nods with vigor, her shoulders bouncing as she squeezes both of her hands between her thighs. Her whole body wishes to explode due to a compilation of emotions beyond understanding. She feels so much at once, sorrow and wonder being the leaders.  

“I think it does justice to her. And you even have your necklace surrounding it. Like a protection.”

Serena bites her lip as a warm tear caress her cheek.

“I guess I have your blessing, then?”

“Of course, auntie Serena. I’m sure Elinor would be honored. It is a lovely drawing. You and Bernie make a great team,” he says before standing up.

“Thank you,” Serena replies, hoping confusion isn’t obvious on her face.

“I wanted to see if you’d like to take your break with me?”

“I’d love to, but there is this important call I have to make. Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll catch up with you?”

Jason leaves the office, leaving Serena alone to face her troubled state. How can a simple drawing weight so much, being so meaningful? Is it fortuitous and unpretentious luck? Has is it been done by instinct? What is the extent of Bernie’s talent and intelligence?

Without thinking, Serena dials Bernie’s number, even though she is occupied in her color session with a client. It’s the first time her call is directed to the voicemail, and Serena feels butterflies fluttering in her stomach at the sound of Bernie’s own name. The purpose of her call isn’t clear in her mind, as various thoughts stack up on the other, leaving her perplexed, and so vulnerable.

“Hi Bernie. I’ve seen your drawing. It’s perfect. I can’t tell you enough how perfect it is. Honestly, it’s brilliant, and even… » her voice breaks exactly when it shouldn’t, “I think we need to talk, in person, soon, if you can, alright? Call me when you’re free, no rush.” She hangs up, dissatisfied of the trembling in her voice.

---

Of course, Bernie worries about that message Well, it’s what it sounds like when she finally does call back after her session. The call goes to Serena’s voicemail in turn while Serena meets with patients.

The cavernous and reserved voice of The Wolfe flows to Serena’s ear.

“Hi Serena, sorry I missed your call. My session was more complicated than I thought. I, um, I’m glad you like the drawing. But why do I sense something is off?” There is a pause before Bernie continues. The weight of nervousness is palpable in the air. “You do know it’s only a drawing. You know, we can make some changes. Maybe less graphic? Maybe I should have handled it differently, right?” There is an embarrassed laugh. "Anyways, um. You can drop by the shop this evening, I’m working late. Okay? See you later.”

Bernie feels vulnerable sharing the art and Serena feels vulnerable receiving it. Two faces of the same coin.

---

Eternal-Inked is closed as the main lights are switched off. The door is unlocked, so Serena twists the doorknob and enters the quiet shop. Just like the first time discovering the place, the brunette is greeted by a bell chime and an eclectic view that sets her aback. Only this evening, a few accent lightening are revealing corners of the room. Her memories tricked her, as the tattoo parlor is smaller than remembered. The decorations, on the other hand, are more eccentric and miscellaneous than reminisced. From the darkness of the evening and with the shadows of the knick-knacks hitting the walls, the turquoise shade is imperceptible. Even the coconut and vanilla scent seems more faded, but maybe it’s because of Serena's runny nose. Some fairy lights are suspended on the thin wooden paravent, sculpted with filigree shape, and Serena notices some movements through it. Foot steps approaching the entrance of the reception.

Even if she’d seen Bernie in person just once in all her life, Serena would recognize the silhouette out of thousands.

Beginning to sweat, Serena is stunned at how nervous she is. Her own breathing is muting her surroundings, until Bernie enters the reception area, then Serena is deaf at the sight of The Wolfe. Bernie, so naturally beautiful, is wearing a simple navy-blue t-shirt with skinny jeans. Her hair is a mess of blond, gold and white curls. But what is striking is the emotion portrayed on her face. Concern.

“Hello Serena, I’m glad you could make it,” Bernie is being cautious, well aware something is off. Reservation makes Bernie stop abruptly in the middle of the reception, far enough from Serena to maintain a respectable distance.

“It’s nice to see you Bernie,” Serena smiles, not able to hide the trembling in her voice. The same she has been carrying all day. “Thank you for having me since I really need to talk to you.”

The artist must sense Serena’s discomfort and comprehends Serena’s stillness as reluctance about…something. The artist slips her hands in the pockets at the back of her jeans.

“I can see how uncomfortable the drawing is making you. I should have gone simpler, like a fuming cup of coffee or a stethoscope, even. Let’s say no more about it, and start over. » Bernie releases her left hand to brush away the bangs sticking to her eyelids, making her hair more of a mess. From Bernie’s position, she looks contrite.

“It’s very important for me to know why you came up with the heart?” Serena demands.

Bernie fidgets, understanding how important the question is to Serena. Still, Bernie does not know why this is happening, why everything is abruptly so different, so awkward. The blonde lowers her head, stares at the floor.

“I thought… if we’d illustrate something anatomical, a heart is representative of who you are,” Bernie speaks slowly, ponders every word, afraid of insulting an already weakened Serena.

“Better than a kidney or a spleen, right?” she jokes, tries to uplift Serena’s spirits. 

Serena can’t process how beautiful and caring Bernie is at this precise moment. She just openly stares at her, hung at every word, admiring her facial features as much as the meekness of her approach.

“I thought this is what we wanted. A combination of your professional and personal life. A surgeon is both practical and theoretical. That’s why I choose the ancient journal, as a symbol of your lectures, of your intellect, and the heart as a symbol of your devotion and your compassion.”

Bernie takes a step further, hoping the given explanation is easing Serena’s worries, maybe a guarantee of a reconciliation. She swallows, manages her courage to continue her clarification.

“Part of the reason why it took me so long to come up with the sketch is because I couldn’t bare the idea of disappointing you,” Bernie look at Serena’s dark eyes, search into them permission to go further.

“I don’t want this to fall apart” Her hand gestures between the two of them, back and forth, recreating an invisible thread. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Oh, how Serena has missed Bernie’s appearance. Being in the same room. The slight changes in Bernie’s voice are becoming so familiar to Serena’s ears, but how strange it is to be ignorant of the various expressions shown on Bernie’s face. How precious it is to finally having the opportunity to become acquainted with them. The roundness of her cheekbones, the sharpness of her nose, the thickness of her eyelids, the thinness of her lips.

Far from having reassuring attitude, Serena finally speaks.

"Oh, what a relief! For a moment there, I had the crazy impression you were a psychic or even a disguised detective.” Serena’s walls of uneasiness finally shattering, she begins to laugh. But not an enjoyable laugh, more frantic, like the ones held in reserve before a breakdown.

“What are you talking about?” Bernie wonders, discreetly looking from left to right, as if the gesture would provide more understanding.

Serena hides her face in the palm of her own hands, groans her frustration, before removing her hands, face painted back with a vivid desperation.

“You see, my daughter,” Serena points a finger in mid-air, “who wanted to be a writer,” her finger continues to point towards an invisible force, “died from a severe brain trauma and,” her syllables are short and rapid, almost in denial of their meaning, “was an organ donor,” the finger stops pointing, as her whole arm falls to her side as shock-waves take hold of her body, “her heart…” Serena is interrupted by her sobs, but she doesn’t need to finish her sentence.

Eyes wide in disbelief, Bernie finally and utterly recognize the depth of Serena’s suffering and the complexity of it’s acuteness.

Without an instant, Bernie sympathetically walks over to Serena’s quivering body and slowly, very slowly, opens her arms, asking permission to embrace her friend. Serena lets herself drop in the crook of Bernie’s neck as the artist affectionately takes Serena in her arms, holding her tightly. A hand leisurely rubs over Serena’s shoulder blades, while the other hand gently presses a little lower on her back. Feeling sheltered, fighting her troubled thoughts away, Serena relaxes in Bernie’s embrace, rests her arms around Bernie’s narrowed waist. Bernie being a little bit taller, with her arms enveloping Serena’s shoulders, Serena is in the perfect position to place her moist cheek on the skin Bernie’s neck as she nets into her. Her face is tickled by Bernie’s blond locks. Gradually, her breathing returns to normal, finding an even pace.

“I’m so sorry Bernie, I don’t know what came over me.” But then again, they both know what happened, and why it happened. It is Bernie’s turn to nest her cheek in Serena’s hair.

“Oh, Serena. I’ve never meant to trouble you.” Instinctively, Bernie continues to rub Serena’s shoulder blades. Until Serena mumbles something in the crook of Bernie’s neck, indistinguishable.

“What is that, dear?” Bernie asks, not weakening their embrace. Serena coughs to clear her throat and moves her face away from the soft skin, and looks into Bernie’s soft eyes, delighted by the proximity of their faces.

“You could’ve advised me this would turn into a psychoanalyst session.” It feels like an immense weight has been lifted from her soul. Serena’s eyes are tired but her voice is playful. The women contemplate each other, their gaze immovable.

“Well, I wasn’t aware of having that power. Maybe I should put a warning.” Bernie plays along, immensely thankful to finally being able understand what was troubling Serena. Still in each other’s embrace, Bernie lowers her arms, let them rest, too, around Serena’s waist instead of around her shoulders.

“How is it possible to be understood so well by a stranger?” Serena wonders out loud, taking the risk of stroking her thumb over Bernie’s cheek, lost in her admiration moles and crow’s feet.  

Bernie is taken aback by Serena’s display of affection. The tattooist places her warm hand over Serena's, caresses it.

“Are we? Strangers, I mean?” As if Bernie’s eyes are searching for the meaning of life, right here in this room, Serena feels light, vaporous, as if she’s blatantly possessing the key to universe’s answers.

“No, we aren’t.” They smile, and as each of their smile grow, it makes the other’s flourish. Until Serena shies away, still smiling, hiding again in Bernie’s neck.  

“I’m really flattered by how you depicted me. The interpretation of your drawing. Not only it coincides with the most traumatic part of my past, but it also manages to characterize me. How wonderful is that?”

Bernie feels the need to explain herself once more, to reiterate that she wasn’t aware of that part of Serena’s past, that she never meant for this to happen. Feeling like this is the appropriate moment to let go of their embrace, Serena slowly backs away, takes Bernie’s hands in hers, holding them up in a comforting way, like offering her forgiveness. Serena tries her hardest not to stare at Bernie’s tattoos.

“That’s why I thought you were some kind of a witch. It was too good to be true. But it seems you’re just very clever.”

“Are you sure about this drawing? It won’t trigger too much?" There is a trace of a well-founded concern in Bernie's face.

“I’m sure. It’s perfect.” The brunette has never been truer to herself before.

As it is expected, in mourning stages, there are moments where the bereaved won’t think of the departed, unintentionally. And it has started to happen to Serena. Whenever it’s because she is too distracted by work or eased by small pleasures. And when Serena does realize she hasn’t been thinking about Elinor for a long period, instant and solid guilt hits her. But with this tribute soon to be inked on her, Elinor will always be here, with her, in her, on her. That’s what she explains to Bernie, who still looks at her as if Serena’s the most surprising creature on earth. Overwhelmed of being on the receiving end of such a touching revelation, Bernie kisses the back of Serena’s hand.

“What do you say we drink to that? Want to join me in a late supper?" Bernie's invitation is also a way to verify that they are okay, that their mutual affection has not weakened but rather strengthened.

“I’d be glad to."

Chapter Text

Coinciding with her fiftieth birthday, Serena is aware that she is about to go through all sorts of transitions. However, Serena never imagined that committing to this tattoo project would trigger an emotional revolution, leading her to be comforted in the arms of her future tattoo artist.

Instead of showing discomfort – which would have been well-deserved – in response to Serena's emotional overflow, Bernie offered to extend their evening by going to the pub on the corner, to eat but most importantly, to clarify the whole situation of the sketch and speak openly. To make sure their mutual esteem has not diminished but rather strengthened.

On this late autumn evening, as they unhurriedly walk together towards the pub, Serena realizes that the course of her life is about to completely change the colors and flavors of the upcoming chapters. Speaking of scents, despite the fact that Bernie doesn’t seem to comb her hair, it’s indeed her shampoo that emits the comforting scent of coconut. There is no doubt about it, after their embrace in the studio, where Serena nestled her face in the hollow of Bernie’s neck. This realization sends a shiver through Serena, unsure whether the cause is simply the coolness of the evening or the overwhelming admiration she feels for this elegant woman. All aspects of her immediate surroundings seem enhanced in their realism.

This is only their second meeting in person, yet their bodies are harmonized as if they have known each other forever. This is reflected in the way they each place one foot in front of the other; in the rhythm of their walk; and in the proximity of their shoulders not colliding although as they walk closely side by side. True, all the communication they have exchanged in writing and over the phone has strengthened a sense of familiarity. And of course, silly Serena, she had to emotionally collapse in the arms – beautifully tattooed – of the one she can call her friend. Well, “friend” is a term heavy with significance, and Serena doesn’t want to use lightly. But how else could she describe their affinity when Bernie looks at her as if she were the most precious person in the world, here and now?

What a delightful turn of events to develop profounder feelings so naturally toward a renowned, unconventional and competent woman and to be included, in return, in this loop of affection. As Bernie opens the door to the Irish tavern, Serena is moved by the contrast of warmth and colors. Under this new lighting, Bernie’s skin is flushed, probably from the cold, and the blonde of her hair reflects the light in golden hues. Against the contrast of the brown and wooden décor, Bernie is absolutely radiant under the soft yellow light bulbs that contour the edges of the ceiling. Bernie can master any color, and Serena has a special appreciation for her pink coat.

The waitress addresses Bernie as "The Wolfe." She greets them with a broad smile while wiping clean glasses. Her arms are dotted with multiple small tattoos. Serena even thinks she recognizes one of the drawings from Bernie’s portfolio she reviewed at the studio.

"Our team sometimes meet here, to unwind. We’re regulars, being not too far from the studio," Bernie explains before offering to take her coat.

The day has been so eventful, both emotionally and professionally, that Serena has not paid attention to her basic needs, and seeing all the bottles behind the bar – it reminds her of all the coffees she’s consumed today – she tells Bernie she needs to step away for a moment to the bathroom, just as Bernie is offering her to catch menus.

"Order whatever you want, I’m not that hungry. I’ll be back in a flash," she excuses herself while walking toward the door with the sign that leads to the bathroom.

The room is a single cubicle, so Serena hurriedly locks the door behind her. The thick wooden walls act like soundproof barriers. Serena can’t even tell if there was any music in the other room. Quickly, she places both hands on the edge of the sink, ignores the mirror in front of her, and closes her eyes, trying to control her breathing. The only aspect catching her attention is the beat of her heart. In a rush, Serena replays flashes of Bernie’s sketch, its emotional precision, and its flawless execution. She senses the distinct scent of Bernie’s coconut smell. She hears the seriousness of Bernie’s voice, full of concern. And suddenly, she hears echoes of Elinor’s laughter.

Serena opens her eyes. The image reflected in the mirror isn’t as alarming as she had suspected. Serena does see an overwhelmed woman, but certainly not an unhappy one. True, Serena recognizes the signs of fatigue in her traits, but she also sees a woman full of confidence and self-respect.

Oh, if only Elinor could see her today. This makes her grin.

"Oh, my darling girl. Thank you for putting me through these eccentrics." Serena turns on the faucet to wash her hands, "at my age!..." and splashes water on her face. "A tattoo...," Serena dries her wet face with a paper towel, opens her eyes, and looks at her reflection in the mirror, "and a new friend."

Serena realizes that anticipation consumes a lot of energy in the cocktail of emotions swirling in her stomach, and that hunger is not part of it. All she’s interested in is chatting with Bernie. Elinor doesn’t have to be addressed tonight, because there will be a time for that. Tonight, Serena would like to familiarize herself with Bernie’s habits, observe her face when she speaks, admire her gestures, and above all, get to know her new acquaintance outside of the client/professional context, if Bernie is opened to the idea.

In a better emotional state, Serena leaves the bathroom and joins her companion in the main room, noticing that Bernie has taken a seat at the bar, occupying the last two stools in the row. On the wall behind the counter are hooked several vintage mirrors reflecting Bernie from various angles. It’s a more intimate spot at the back of the establishment, away from the comings and goings. The waitress is busy near the entrance, interacting with regular customers, leaving them more space to exchange. Serena pleasantly admires the portrait before her.

Sitting on her stool, facing the one reserved for Serena, Bernie has crossed her elongated legs, placed one elbow on the bar, while the other hand holds her freshly served beer. To her left on the counter, in front of Serena’s reserved stool, waits a glass of red wine.

"Oh! Shiraz?" Serena is impressed. Bernie suddenly seems uncomfortable.

"I... I have no idea. I asked for their best red wine," Bernie looks around, helpless.

"Don’t worry, darling. Although I’m astonished you remembered my special love for red wine," Serena smirks and joins Bernie.

Serena confidently raises her glass for a toast. "To a brilliant mind."

Bernie lifts her beer in turn and timidly clinks her glass. "To generous hearts."

There are sparks in Serena’s eyes and there is a genuine smile on Bernie’s lips. An exquisite current flows between the two women. Serena blinks, blushing.

Serena takes a sip of the wine, moans with pleasure before placing her glass on the counter. "Hm, delicious! You choose well. But after the extraordinary work, I mean extraordinary, that you presented to me," Serena slams her hands on her own thighs to emphasize her words, "and which is going to change my life, nothing should surprise me anymore!"

Bernie laughs and shakes her head at her, not accepting all the compliments pouring in. "I’m just doing my job." Bernie takes another sip and oddly locks her gaze on the counter instead of looking directly at Serena. "In fact, your project proposal was one of the best surprises of these past years. It was like electrical circuits lighting up in my head," and that’s when Bernie gathers her courage and looks directly at Serena, her enchanting eyes seeming to melt with delicacy.

They remain reflective, gazing at each other with affection, their hands never leaving their respective drinks. Without even noticing, Serena runs a finger along the base of her glass, while Bernie mirrors this gesture on the base of her own drink, as if it were a natural symmetry. A slow contemplation takes place, where the two women stay comfortably in silence. The electrical circuits that light up in her head—that is a metaphor with which Serena can relate.

It's at this precise moment of seductive tranquility that the waitress meets with them, from behind the counter.

"Good evening, ladies, may I bring you the menu?" Not only does the young waitress wears about a dozen of small tattoos on her arms, but her face is covered in various piercings. Her appearance perfectly matches the vibe Bernie gives off. This brings Serena back to the reality of her age, of her own appearance, and for some unknown reason, a knot of nervousness tightens in her throat.

Bernie smiles at the waitress before addressing to Serena. "I didn’t order, I preferred to wait for you.”

"Honestly, I’m not that hungry. Besides, my nephew is expecting me later tonight. He likes his routine."

Bernie nods in understanding, although she seems completely lost at the idea that Serena has a nephew waiting for her. They won’t be ordering anything, so Bernie thanks the waitress, who leaves them to their conversation.

"My nephew, he has special needs. He’s a good boy. He stays with me a few nights a month. His company does me good, and it forces him to change his scenery from time to time. We get along well now, though it wasn’t easy at the beginning."

Bernie smiles. "I admit, I enjoy my solitude, which is beneficial for the reflection I need for my work, but some companionship is always welcomed." With these words, Bernie shifts slightly on her stool and takes a firmer stance with her elbow on the counter.

"So, Bernie, do you always stir up artistic revolutions when you disclose your sketches?"

The choice of words may seem exaggerated, but the respectful and solemn intonation in Serena’s voice makes Bernie respond candidly.

"It’s true that this aspect is mentioned in my profile on my website, but only because it’s a comment I often receive. I don’t claim to have a crystal ball or any special predisposition."

"At least, we can all agree that you do have this superior capacity." Serena tries to be as transparent and encouraging as possible, before adopting a more composed, deeper tone. "You really moved me, Bernie. You have great insight."

"Let’s just say you’re a captivating subject. It makes my work more...inspiring."

Serena is taken aback and unconsciously grips her glass with more firmness. She seems to be drawn into the gravity of Bernie’s enchanting gaze, who, despite everything, is not a particularly expressive person.

"I observe and listen a lot. It’s a professional deformation, which you must also share, being a surgeon?" Bernie uncrosses and recrosses her legs.

"I do observe a lot, indeed, but I speak more often than I listen. My position at the hospital makes me having to dispatch, advise, guide. And I’m the very definition of an extroverted person, so this professional deformation has also become a troublesome habit in my private life."

Memories resurface; how Elinor used to complain about her mother constantly going on and on with the same anecdotes; or Jason, who thought his aunt was dodging topics instead of answering directly; or even Edward, who accused her of managing their relationship as if it were a hospital. Curiously, Serena truly is concise and efficient at work. It’s only when she becomes the center of attention that her thoughts get tangled, she loses track, and starts mumbling. Like what happened at her initial consultation with Bernie, at the studio, a few weeks ago.

"As an introvert, I can say that you bring a beautiful balance. It’s impossible to get bored around you… Our conversations have been a delightful addition to my long evenings, especially when I was out of inspiration."

"That is kind of you to say. And I honestly return the compliment. There is no doubt that there is no other woman like you. You are unique,” Serena holds out her hands in front of Bernie, out of appreciation, accentuating her words. “I mean, look at you. You’re a masterpiece,” she adds enthusiastically.

They gaze at each other kindly, as if all the surrounding sounds are reduced to inaudible whispers. The tattooed and non-tattooed skin of Bernie seems incredibly soft, and Serena is constantly impressed by how the colors play on Bernie’s figure, and just how much ink there is on her body.

"I’ve never dared ask you why you left the military," she finally dares to ask tonight.

Still as observant and analytical, Bernie takes several seconds to respond, as if she is reminiscing her entire life in her mind.

"Earlier, you texted me because you were worried about the placement of the tattoo and the scar on your back. Well, I share your experience of scars on the body. An explosion forced me to retire from the army. It was sudden and final."

The many surgeries Serena has performed on war survivors left her with a grim and graphic visual, and she can’t help but let out a gasp of shock. Undoubtedly moved, Serena instinctively covers her mouth with one hand, as if she wants to take back the sound that escaped.

After this exclamation, Bernie looks around them, laughing timidly, embarrassed by the curious eyes directed their way. Then, she places a hand on Serena's knee to reassure her that this is indeed an old story. The explosion happened years ago.

"Don’t worry. I’ve gotten over it very well. I was finally able to do what I’ve always wanted. Working in the army was a family tradition."

Serena removes her hand from her mouth, placing it on her own chest this time, trying to contain her overly empathetic heartbeat.

"Dear god, a trigger warning next time, darling." As soon as she says it, she regrets it, because isn’t it ironic that Serena was the one who had just casually announced, in the midst of an anxiety attack, that her deceased daughter had donated her heart while being brain death?

"You seemed to fit the typical profile to serve in the military, didn’t you? Fearless, observant, persistent, fighting patriarchy…" Serena tries to steer the conversation back in order.

"Yes, it was easy to fit in. Like my father and my son. But after the bombing, for obvious practical reasons, like not being able to lift too much weight or stand for long periods of time, I had to give it up, not to mention post-traumatic stress…" Once again, Bernie seems lost in her thoughts, before pulling herself out of it by taking a big gulp of her beer.

To lighten the conversation, Serena avoids the trauma topic.

"So… if I understand correctly,” Serena leans towards Bernie, confiding, “being a tattoo artist is a job that’s more, how should I say, ergonomic?" Serena insists, with a mocking tone, on the absurdity of it, and she bursts out laughing, feeling a bit too comfortable teasing her companion, but how else to defuse such a situation.

Fortunately, Bernie plays along with her mockery.

"Oh, you’re absolutely right! My old bones, they don’t make any distinction between the labor of the military and the labor of tattooing, as far as they’re concerned."

To emphasize the irony of her condition, Bernie starts mimicking all the imaginable positions she has to adopt in her work – hunched back, bent neck, squinting eyes, splayed fingers, raised arm, tilted head, elevated shoulders, outstretched leg. Bernie is delightfully cheery and full of self-mockery. There is absolutely no doubt any more, Serena thinks Bernie is the most beautiful woman on earth.

"Oh, and what about arthritis, right?" Serena insists, bursting into laughter, pointing at Bernie, encouraging her to continue her antics. Serena joins her, and the two of them get caught up in silly, contorted poses they encounter in their respective jobs.

"It’s bloody incapacitating!" Bernie says, her breath smelling faintly of beer, just enough to remind Serena how physically close they’ve become since arriving at the pub, and it fills her with great pleasure.

Serena adds more common factors between their professions. "And the disinfectant procedure, and the gloves, and the mask!" her tone faking being jaded.

"Oh, don’t get me started! Carpal tunnel?" Bernie exaggeratedly massages her wrists, mimicking pain. "Not to mention the hot flashes of menopause that course through your body,” Bernie adds, laughing as hard as Serena.

"Oh my god, and what about trying to stay steady in the middle of—" Serena starts, "a tattoo session," interrupts Bernie, "a surgery," adds Serena, exactly at the same time, with the same rhythm, with the same degree of humor and insistence.

Their synchronicity is mind-blowing, and it only fuels their laughter. To Bernie’s dismay, Serena discovers her unique laugh. A horn-like laugh.

"Oh Bernie, what a sweet, particular laugh you have there!" Serena can’t help but comment, trying to hide her giggles behind her glass, tears of joy at the corners of her eyes.

"I’ve been told that before," Bernie replies between two deep breaths.

Their laughter gradually fades, though their smiles remain on their contented faces. Serena has lost all sense of time, and any professional or family obligations. All that exists is this woman with whom she shares a moment of camaraderie and sincerity.

Bernie finally calmed her laughter enough to respond to Serena with more seriousness. "So yes, my body still suffers from old age and the risks of the profession, but my soul, on the other hand, is doing so much better." Bernie truly looks at peace. "I love what I do."

"You change the lives of your clients, I can understand. You give them a way to assert themselves, permanently," it’s Serena’s turn to place her hand on Bernie’s knee.

"So do you, you save people’s lives with your surgeries," Bernie speaks, filled with admiration.

Not only do Bernie and Serena easily navigate on the same wavelength, but it seems they wouldn’t even need words to complete each other’s thoughts. Never before has Serena felt that someone could navigate her mind and understand the flow of her thoughts. It’s as if Bernie’s mere presence triggers waves in her soul, which shines with each burst of laughter. Never before has Serena managed to understand another person who combines so many factors leading her to believe that Bernie might be her equal in every way.

At that very moment, the waitress, who had been watching them from a distance, brings them a second glass of red wine and a second beer.

"When a date goes this well, it’s a pleasure to witness. Here’s a refill, on the house." Cheerfully cheeky, the waitress winks at them before returning to the far end of the counter, near the other customers.

Confused, neither Bernie nor Serena knows how to respond. They remain speechless as the waitress walks away. Neither of them wants to correct or confirm anything, nor do they want to comment. They realize just how little discretion or moderation they had shown, lost in their own little cozy world. It brings them back to reality.

"Well, Bernie, I’ve never seen the point of just one. Cheers!" They laugh and toast again, as if that could erase the waitress’s suggestion.

Although it’s physically impossible to adjust the stool, Serena leans toward Bernie, moving her body closer to her friend to regain the discretion they had lost with their antics. Serena doesn’t want to weaken this intimacy.

"Bernie, I’m sorry that your career change happened under such tragic circumstances," Serena says, rolling her necklace between her fingers.

Bernie sighs, serene. "It’s alright, Serena. It’s my fault. I kept putting off the decision for years. That one, and many others."

How ironic to find herself in front of a woman – of an age possibly similar to Serena’s – heavily tattooed, working with a dynamic and varied clientele, surrounded by youthful insurgents, and admitting that at one point in her life, she had greatly doubted which path to take. Everything about Bernie radiates assertiveness.

Bernie takes a sip of her beer. "Every night, I kept repeating to myself how wonderful life would be, if only I was brave enough," it seems that Bernie says this out of nostalgia. "I stopped wondering and actually became brave enough at the exact moment I thought my life was over."

The weight of these words strikes Serena to her core, to her heart that’s been irregularly and powerfully beating since their emotionally charged meeting at the studio. A life can be interrupted so randomly, so cruelly, so inexplicably.

Daily, Serena faces the reality of this unfair certainty. And yet, hopes grow, appreciation finds it’s way in slow progress, healing in finding support in loved ones. Curiously, far behind all logical reasoning, Serena believes it wasn’t mere coincidence that brought Bernie into her life.

"Maybe it’s just my life journey that leads me to think… how much better it is to have regrets for daring to try, than to have remorse for not even trying at all." This sentence could have been spoken by either Serena or Bernie, as their synchronicity makes no distinction between their souls.

Bernie sets her glass down on the counter, positions herself to face Serena completely, with her head lowered. This posture further dishevels her hair, as it now partially hides her generous gaze. Intrigued, Serena mimics the exact same position, placing her hands on her thighs, facing Bernie, waiting to see what Bernie is about to do or say.

Bernie clears her throat. "Creating your sketch was terrifying. Having the chance to accompany you in this project filled me with pride and I couldn’t bare failing," Bernie still doesn’t look at Serena.

Dare, Serena, dare! This time, Serena feels filled with a bold energy, as though the electrical circuits of creativity that Bernie had referred to have begun to infiltrate her as well.

"I would love for you to tattoo me with the exact sketch you’ve so skillfully prepared," Serena’s heart is racing in her chest. Why does this moment feel like it’s as if their destiny is at stake? As if she’s making an immeasurable choice? She’s beginning an extraordinary adventure with an incredible, unexpected and attentive partner.

"It would be an honor," Bernie finally looks up at Serena, grateful, and it seems like it releases a heavy tension that had been weighing on her shoulders.

Serena gathers the courage to take Bernie’s hands over hers, placing her thumbs on the backs of Bernie’s hands, gently caressing the veins and joints of her fingers. By this gesture, it’s as though Serena is openly admitting to having blind trust in Bernie’s execution.

"I’m getting old, and I refuse to wait until my 51st birthday to go under the scalpel… well, under the… needles.” The notion of pain, which usually doesn’t frighten Serena, suddenly resurfaces to her awareness. She tries not to dread it. "It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?" she suddenly asks, slightly worried, not letting go of Bernie’s hands.

Bernie nods affirmatively and, with an affectionate gaze, begins to gently caress the back of Serena’s hands with her fingertips. It makes both of them shiver. "We’ll get through this together, Serena," she says with that well-known tenderness in her eyes.

Serena smiles, satisfied and reassured.

"By the way, we’re the same age," Bernie admits.

"Well then! Another thing we have in common. Is there any retirement age in the tattoo world?" Serena elbows her playfully.

"Is there a retirement age in surgery department?" Bernie tilts her head as if challenging Serena to respond.

At that precise moment, Serena’s phone rings. It’s Jason sending a text. Serena apologizes for the interruption and admits she has to leave to meet with her nephew.

Out of politeness, Bernie stands first, signaling to Serena that she completely understands.

"We’ll finalize the details of the session later," she says.

Serena feels the need to summarize their conversation, which could take many different turns, in order to close the evening.

"Thank you for treating my project with such respect," she says, standing and going to retrieve her coat hanging not far away. "I mean, thank you for not being afraid of my emotional reaction at the studio...," she continues, awkwardly trying to slip her arms into the coat’s sleeves. Once again, since the subject is so personal to her, Serena stammers and becomes clumsy, but Bernie comes to her rescue.

"It’s me who should thank you, Serena," Bernie responds with remarkable ease while putting on her beautiful pink coat. Bernie gives her a magnificent smile, both enthusiastic and vulnerable.

Serena suddenly remembers where they are. "These drinks are on me." Offering to pay for their drinks is the least she can do.

"Not a chance," Bernie insists firmly, pretending to be offended. "Besides, I have a tab here."

Ah, a little stubborn side is emerging? Serena can certainly join in with her competitive side, with tease.

"Well, The Wolfe, I suggest we arm-wrestle." Serena’s voice invites a challenge.

"What? With our tendinitis?" Bernie bursts out laughing, not indulging.

"We both need dexterity in these hands, but I’ll never accept defeat without a fight." Serena places her elbow on the edge of the counter, her arm vertical, fingers moving as an invitation to challenge her.

Bernie’s face completely changes, and she gives a little sly smile. Serena is convinced the roundness of her pupils has widened.

"You’re on, Campbell," and they both move closer, locking eyes. Bernie places her elbow on the counter and carefully wraps her fingers around Serena’s, adjusting their palms together, the skin of their hands incredibly soft for women who work with their hands.

"Go!" Bernie says, and Serena takes the lead, even making weird little expressions with her face to push forward, which takes Bernie by surprise, as her grimaces are endearing.

Indeed, they are playfully fighting for dominance, and they aren’t holding back. Bernie even feels a pinch in her wrist and has difficulty concentrating because their entwined hands radiate a beautiful heat. Serena had reasons to be so confident, as she wins, shouting "Yes!" in triumph.

A few clients at the pub applaud Serena’s victory.

"Bloody Hell!" Bernie is thoroughly impressed but mostly amused, while Serena walks over to the waitress, who wears an oversized grin, to pay the bill.

A little dizzy from all the emotions they’ve experienced, Bernie and Serena leave the pub, satisfied. Outside, the cold catches up with them, and Serena tightly holds the collar of her coat close to her neck.

"I’ll catch a cab, wanna share?" Serena inquires, her cheeks pink from the cold.

"Thanks, I’m good. It’s a walking distance from my flat, on the way to the studio." Bernie points toward the opposite street.

Neither of them wants to make the moment awkward, so at the very instant when Serena was about to thank Bernie for the evening, Bernie was about to thank Serena for her trust.

The result is a tangle of overlapping stammering, embarrassed apologies and reciprocated smiles.

The two women gaze at each other tenderly, for an extended minute, appreciating each other’s beauty, yet unable to express their deepest desires. Serena loses herself in Bernie’s caring gaze, every moment suspended, every breath measured, as if this moment, this encounter, was nothing less than a silent revelation. Words, though necessary, seem superfluous, as if the exchanged glances, the shared warmth, carried all the understanding they needed.

The beats of their hearts, so close yet hidden beneath their skin, are the only witnesses to what is unfolding in the air. Serena, under the influence of this mute tenderness, lets herself be swept away by their complicity.

As Serena slowly bends forward to get closer to Bernie, staring at her thin lips, they are, once more, interrupted, this time by Charlotte, the studio’s receptionist, who shows up from around the corner.

“Mum? I’ve been looking for you. I need your input with tomorrow’s schedule as two clients are double-booked.”

Chapter Text

When Serena comes home late from work, if Jason is ready for dinner, he is allowed to eat in the living room, in front of the TV, to watch his favorite shows, even though he sees this as a sign of disrespect. But if there is one person Serena trusts not to stain her sofa or make a mess, it's definitely her nephew.

“Good evening, Jason”, Serena says while taking off her coat and shoes.

"You are not having a glass of wine?" Jason points out when he notices his aunt heading directly to the kitchen instead of leisurely going to her special cabinet to pour herself the usual well-deserved glass of wine.

"Oh no, my dear boy, I’ve had enough tonight," Serena politely mentions as she heads to the kitchen to open the fridge, intending to warm up a meal in the microwave. She has no idea what it is—leftovers from the week—and she couldn't care less. The smell of coconut is still too close to her soul.

"Auntie Serena?" Jason's voice, distant, blends into the whirlpool of thoughts haunting Serena's mind.

Serena must present a strange picture. Standing upright, staring at the microwave -but mostly at the void-, arms crossed, with furrowed brows from the depth of her reflection, she must give the impression that the slight vibration and the dim light of the microwave are the most captivating things in the world, while in fact, Serena notices nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing. She is on a journey of reminiscence.

What flows through her mind: the smell of coconut; the sight of black ink on skin; the echo of an adorably absurd hornlike-laugh; the memory of eyes full of incredible softness and generosity; the allure of a mouth with thin lips offering seductive smiles...

"Did you kiss?" Jason’s question is the loudest thing Serena has ever heard.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. Like a siren activating the alarm for a return to reality. Serena jumps suddenly. The microwave countdown is over, and the dish is heated. Curiously, Serena illogically fears burning her hands when she opens the door to retrieve her dish.

"What makes you ask such a question?" wonders Serena, with all the seriousness in the world. Holding the plate in one hand, she opens the drawer to take a utensil, without even knowing what she’s about to eat.

Jason seems to be waiting for Serena to sit at the end of the sofa before continuing the conversation. Serena has rarely anticipated a response to such an astonishing question; it even takes away her appetite.

"It’s because of the way you talk about her," Jason begins with his remarkable calmness. The detached and factual way in which he addresses sensitive topics will always impress his aunt.

"In fact, it’s more about the way you behave when you talk about her."

Listening attentively, Serena doesn’t notice her arm, mid-air, holding up a spoon with something lightly dripping from the utensil back to the plate until it’s ready to be brought to her mouth.

I have been in love before, I do recognize the symptoms.

Serena feels numb, both burning and freezing, both light and massive, both opaque and transparent, both vacant and complete. In love.

"I like the drawing she made. I understand it’s a metaphor, is that right? For Elinor?" Jason tries to keep the conversation going, in the absence of Serena's usual participation.

She can’t explain to Jason that Bernie wasn’t, at all, aware of Elinor’s story. It’s even hard enough for Serena to comprehend. It’s not a scam or a set-up... Bernie only had intuition, was observant and clairvoyant. And this coincidence can’t be explained—at least, not rationally…

Serena simply nods and finally gulps down a bite of her meal, remaining silent during a few chews, while wondering what she’s actually eating. She winces, looking down at her plate.

"You know tattoos are permanent?" Jason adds, proud of showing off his knowledge.

Undoubtedly, permanent, just like the mark Bernie left on her.

"That is indeed the purpose of a tattoo, my dear," Serena retorts while chewing her mouthful.

"I don’t think I’ll ever be convinced of something, with enough certainty, to make it permanent," Jason rambles, staring at the television.

A certain annoyance begins to settle in Serena, an unexpected and unpleasant impatience. Serena chews faster and faster.

Jason continues to extrapolate. "It’s like having a child. It’s definitely something that’s permanent, like a tattoo. Once it’s done, it’s forever," he adds.

Serena slams her plate down onto the coffee table, splashing some liquid onto her hands and onto her beautiful freshly varnished mahogany table, and begins to rant.

"We never know. You could have an accident and lose the arm you just got a tattoo on. Or you could have a car accident, fall into a coma, and lose your child—" Serena stops abruptly, awakened by the warm liquid running down her wrists. The room is silent, except for the cacophony coming from the television.

What’s happening? Where does this necessity for confrontation comes from? This hostility that should never be directed towards the innocent person that is her nephew? Her nephew, so curious and with the patience of an angel.

Certainly, Serena feels frustrated. It’s all of the unsaid, all these repressed needs. It’s that undeniable chemistry and synchronicity. It’s too many imprecision and unspoken intentions. She is confused because her pragmatic world being replaced by one of blossom and fantasy. It’s the sudden arrival of love that takes her by surprise!

"Oh, Jason. I’m really sorry. Forgive me, I don’t know why I lost my temper like that."

Jason doesn’t look at her, but he offers to clean up the small mess caused by his aunt’s irritation, though Serena politely declines.

"It's okay, my dear. I’ll take care of it, and I’m sorry again," Serena says as she stands up, uses a napkin from the table to wipe everything down, and takes the opportunity to gather Jason's dishes as well. "I think I’d better step away for the evening, I don’t want to be bad company," she justifies, feeling embarrassed.

"I understand, you’ll feel better tomorrow morning," Jason smiles carefully. Grateful for his understanding, Serena, relieved, returns a kind smile. "Good night, Jason."

Heading toward the kitchen, Serena catches a glimpse of a shadow floating calmly from the corner of the room. It’s the large red ‘50’ balloon, hovering to torment her like a temporal ghost. Forgotten in this room for several weeks, the balloon has almost completely deflated, gradually losing its helium, becoming wrinkled and withered, isolated and deformed, alone under the dull neon light of the stove’s hood. Hoping this poor balloon isn’t a bad omen...

Being in love with Bernie. Or infatuated. In such a short time, to have so much to exchange; in so few encounters, to find so many certitudes... The analytical and empirical mind of the surgeon is at an impasse. On unknown ground: to be in love with a stranger… an intriguing and beautiful fifty-year-old tattoo artist, a former military woman, who she hopes, is privileged enough to call her friend.

But what if this synchronicity is purely something Bernie awakens naturally in her clients? Just a way to retain her clientele? Has Serena fallen into the spiral of the tattoo world and become enchanted by the offerings of The Wolfe? Deep down, Serena knows well that such synchronicity is not trivial, that such reciprocity is rare, and therefore must be sincere. So, does Serena simply believe she doesn’t deserve such a privilege, too precious to be true?

All these thoughts would like to tumble out of her mouth, like an avalanche of words she fears she won’t be able to contain. Ugh, Serena thinks it's better to push it all away and move on. She is afraid of a migraine starting. Besides, she does not want to become an emotional burden. When there’s so much to say, it’s better to say nothing at all!

Serena prefers to shake Bernie out of her thoughts by sending her a polite text message.

“Got home safely?” is a respectful question to send to a friend after an enjoyable evening. It’s a text that doesn’t invite anything more. There, done! Serena carelessly places her phone away on the counter.

Serena regains her calm by doing the dishes, enjoying the warmth of the water and the scented soap, finally free from thoughts of Bernie, while occupying her mind with routine and repetitive tasks. Wait, does the soap smell like coconut?

***

A invigorating hot shower often provides the ideal remedy for emotional and muscle aches. Enthused, Serena makes sure there’s a clean towel available and, true to her habits, she lights her favorite candle. Smooth amber, oak-wood and dried orchids. Definitely not coconut.

Methodically, Serena starts removing her clothes. She begins with her blouse, which slides easily down her arms. Then, she grabs her black camisole by the bottom and pulls it over her head, slightly undoing her hair. Taking off her bra is always a welcomed moment, so Serena quickly unhooks the clips at her back, sliding the straps down her arms before adding the garment to the pile accumulating on the floor. Quickly, she removes her pants, carefully taking off her two socks. However, she loses her balance for a moment and has to steady herself on the towel rack fixed on the wall, near the large mirror. It’s at this moment that she pays attention to her reflection, almost completely naked, except for her underwear.

In a hurry, with a sense of urgency, Serena starts turning on all the bathroom lights: the series of mini bulbs that follow the rectangular shape of the mirror, the blinding overhead ceiling light, and the small lamp beside the sink— the one she uses in front of her magnifying mirror to pluck stray chin hair. Not to mention the candle, gently flickering while emitting warmth and fragrance. Her body is illuminated from every angle, revealing every detail.

In her undies, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Serena sees everything. Completely exposed to the harshness of life and the truth of the lighting, Serena notices every varicose vein, every bit of cellulite, every stretch mark, every hair. She turns her hip to expose her right side, tilts her head back to have a better view of see her back and of her buttocks, before repeating the same process on the left side, as if this time she might discover something different. Soon-to-be tattooed, Serena examines herself from a frank, almost medical angle that she had previously refused to see. And a relatively large tattoo will be added this body, through Bernie’s delicate care and attention to detail.

What have I gotten myself into?

The phone chimes. A ring, not a text! Upon seeing Bernie’s name appear on the caller ID, Serena almost instinctively covers her chest out of modesty. Usually, Bernie prefers to send texts. Disoriented, Serena answers the call, instinctively curling up on herself, as if her posture could hide a nudity that Bernie, in any case, cannot see. Serena makes sure Bernie is on speakerphone.

“All safe and sound?” Serena immediately asks as a greeting, slightly leaning in the direction of the phone resting on the counter.

After a few seconds, Bernie responds without addressing Serena’s question. “Why is there so much echo?” she asks, unaccustomed to this sound.

Embarrassed, Serena looks around.

“Hmm, I’m in the bathroom?” Serena states openly.

This time, Bernie answers right away. “Okay, um, do you want me to call back later?”

“No, no, I’m in the bathroom, not at the bathroom,” Serena corrects, realizing how silly she sounds.

Once again, the—adorable—horn-like laugh. “I knew that!” This laugh resonates beautifully in the echo of the small room, as though Bernie was actually there, which would, of course, be absurd.

And then, neither of them dares to speak. Out of politeness, after such a lovely evening, they both try to leave enough space for the other to speak, unless they both really don’t know what else to say—that would be a first! For one thing, their synchronicity grants them an endless amount of conversation topics and no dull moment, even in the silences.

Finally, it’s Bernie who breaks the silence. “Sorry about earlier,” Bernie clears her throat, “Charlotte can sometimes be insistent. She’s a workaholic, like her mother,” she admits, taking a deep breath.

Serena is grateful that Bernie brings up the subject of her daughter. “Is the schedule fixed now?”

“Well, actually, the two double-booked clients canceled their appointments. If we hadn’t contacted them to clarify the schedule, they probably wouldn’t have even shown up. At least, now I know in advance that my day tomorrow is free,” Bernie seems curiously relieved.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate, though. I guess that’s why you usually ask for deposits?”

“Deposits are more for the drawing time, to secure a fund if the client walks away and never accepts the sketch,” explains Bernie.

Having not asked for a deposit after their initial meeting, did Bernie blindly trust Serena?

“Would you like me to send you a deposit?” Serena suggests.

“Only if you intend on running away,” jokes Bernie, laughing greatly.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Serena Campbell is committing. I’m not going anywhere,” especially not after going through this whole emotional revolution.

“I’m glad.”

Almost completely naked in the bathroom, lit from all angles, tired and starting to feel cold, Serena realizes that she’s not in the ideal condition to talk to Bernie, but she wouldn’t dare interrupt this conversation. She is, indeed, infatuated, at least. She holds her hands over the candle to warm up and give herself some courage.

“So, um, you have two kids?” she asks tentatively.

“Yes, two beautiful grown-up kids,” Serena can imagine the accomplished smile on Bernie’s face.

“That must be nice, working with your daughter…” Serena unexpectedly sniffles. Distracted, she does not notice how close her hands are to the candle, and as soon as she feels a tiny twinge of pain, she retracts her hands immediately.

“Having familiarity with your colleagues can be quite effective,” explains Bernie. “No need to get to know each other or even overdo the polite formalities,” Bernie pauses briefly. “In fact, we almost never run into each other. She assists our clients, and I stay in the back, in my booth.”

Serena recalls how Charlotte had given her an amused look at the end of her meeting with Bernie on the day of her birthday. Serena had thought it was because of her age or because she was new to the world of tattoos. It’s rather peculiar, the fact that Bernie’s daughter can always see with whom Bernie spends her days, witness the type of clients she meets, see how she handles all kinds of people, appreciate the artworks she engraves on so many skins… Serena wonders if Elinor would have liked working with her at the hospital.

“Jason works at my hospital. He helps transport stretchers, gives a hand as an assistant here and there,” Serena cheerfully mentions.

“Ah, does he? That’s to his credit,” Bernie’s voice, coming through the speakerphone, seems so close, yet so distant at the same time.

“And what about your son?” Blimey, Serena can’t remember his name.

“Cameron? We worked together at the same military base. Well, not in the same regiment. But that time is over, and he never wants to work with me again.” There’s a bitter tone behind these firm words.

For once, Serena doesn’t know if it’s wise to respond. She prefers to give Bernie the chance to offer a bigger picture of her side of the story before offering words of sympathy.

“At the same time, I wasn’t a very maternal figure, while his father at least made an effort to be present,” Bernie admits frankly. “He sided with his father after our divorce. Let’s just say he inherited conservative values,” she regrets.

Serena is definitely starting to feel very cold, but instead of interrupting Bernie’s confession, she unfolds her towel and wraps it around her shoulders, paying close attention to the pleasant voice coming from her phone.

“Conservative values that you’re far from sharing, right?” Serena adds with a smile in her voice. “While your daughter, receptionist at a tattoo parlor, would probably lean toward the political left, anarchism, embracing queer theory, etc.?” Serena enumerates clichés, warming up little by little.

Bernie laughs. “But my kids get along well. That’s what matters.”

Serena is happy to hear that. For the little time Jason and Elinor spent together, Serena doesn’t think she can say the same.

“I’m the black sheep of the family,” Bernie remarks, which is, in fact, quite visually apparent.

“You mean, the black and gray sheep?” They both laugh.

“By the way, Serena, I didn’t know you knew the term ‘queer.’”

“Ah, I might be 50, but I have quite a few tricks up my sleeve! Or should I say, out of my closet?” Overcome with warmth, Serena removes the towel from her shoulders and uses her hands to fan her neck. A few droplets of sweat have started to form on her nape. She sighs and positions herself in front of the mirror, deciding to take off her underwear in order to be completely naked and continue her introspection. Multitask is her special gift.

Bernie remains silent, but Serena can hear her very clearly. Her presence is, in some way, loud. Serena hears Bernie breathing and handling things— a pencil, a remote, a cup?

“Do you wish to know what I’ve been doing in my bathroom this whole time?” asks Serena.

“Do tell,” Bernie engages.

“I’m completely naked in front of my huge mirror, under the spotlight of my harsh lights, and I’m abhorring my cellulitis and stretch marks!”

Bernie literally chokes. She coughs, coughs, regains her breath, before bursting into genuine laughter. “I see, and is this a frequent hobby?” her voice is still breathless, and she coughs once more.

Serena decides to relax, something so easy to do every time she talks to Bernie. True to their camaraderie, there’s a natural flow between them. Bernie’s voice has the ability to exude a wonderful ease. It seems that nothing can bother her, annoy her, or offend her.

“I’m staring at myself wondering if I’ve lost my marbles,” Serena emphasizes her questioning, gesturing in front of her mirror. She feels like Bernie is capable of recreating, from memory, her gestures. Serena stares at herself from top to bottom, from the hair on her head to the toes of her feet.

“Pardon me?” Bernie’s tone shifts, no longer amused. She can sense a serious undertone behind Serena’s jokes.

“How am I going to get this body tattooed?”

Fearing Serena might spiral into a worry cycle, Bernie tries to reassure her friend.

“Serena, listen to me. Think of your operating room,” Bernie suggests, inviting her to go along with her thoughts.

“Sorry?” Serena doesn’t understand where this comparison is going, but she trusts Bernie.

“Most of your surgeries are done on the spot, with little preparation time from your patients. In those conditions, do you pay attention to their hair, their varicose veins, or do you focus your efforts on the execution of your work?”

“Well, the hair, yes, because of the incision areas and the sutures…”

“You know what I mean,” Bernie insists, her voice regaining its lightness, though her tone remains firm. “As your future tattoo artist, I see a beautiful body, one that’s been cherished, one that has lived well, worked under pressure, and deserves the adrenaline of a subversive act to honor its journey.”

Serena blinks, shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and bites the side of her lip.

“My goodness, you really don’t want to lose this sale, do you?” Bernie certainly has a way with words, and she undeniably knows how to speak to women.

“You’re a very beautiful woman, Serena. Tell me, what do you see?”

At her friend’s request, Serena pauses, taking a long moment to scan every part of her exposed body with her eyes. This gives her the chance to appreciate the scent of the candle that fills the room.

Serena has always liked her face. She finds it has a dignified structure, one that commands respect, much like her voice, which has a velvet quality. Her ears make her laugh, with their exaggerated shape, which she hides behind her short hair. She likes her eyes, which bring her a great deal of veneration. Then there’s her neck, which she doesn’t feel the need to hide, despite the wrinkles that are beginning to form, and she enjoys wearing her precious necklace. No one has ever complained about her full bottom. Most of the compliments received have been about her generous breasts. Her stomach is a normal stomach for a woman of her age who has had—and lost—a child, and who often enjoys a good drink and pastries. Her back doesn’t bother her, simply because she never sees it. She’s quite fond of her hips, appreciating their curvy shape and the sway of her gait. However, she can admit that her arms are what annoy her the most; she dislikes their flabbiness and the brown age-spots that have started appearing on the forearm. Her hands do bring exceptional pride, as they are, after all, her tools of the trade, and they’ve never let her down. As for her thighs, they’re uninteresting, ordinary, but they are also not too hairy nor affected by cellulitis, compared to her legs and ankles lightly affected by varicose veins.

And that’s when Serena has a moment of clarity, a genius idea.

“My thigh! Bernie, that’s the area I’m choosing! It’s perfect.” As if she’s won the jackpot, Serena wants to shout Eureka! “With the professional’s permission, of course?” Serena turns toward the phone, asking for Bernie’s approval, even though she isn’t actually in the room, but she shares this triumphant discovery with her nonetheless.

“That’s also the body part I was going to suggest,” Bernie happily agrees, pleased that her friend came to the realization on her own. “In your case, it’s the spot least likely to experience friction during healing, easy to monitor during the scabbing time, and not an obstacle in the performance of your work,” Bernie can hear Serena’s giggles. “Plus, it’s very easy to hide.”

"Deal!" Serena claps her hands, eager to begin something that definitely won't start tonight. She feels like she's just shed a few centuries. "When are we doing this? Oh my god, I need to check my schedule," Serena spins around, searching for an imaginary agenda.

"Easy there, tiger. We're not doing this tomorrow, don't take away my day off," Bernie laughs at Serena's excitement.

In the end, Serena doesn't mind the harsh lighting of the bathroom, which highlights and sculpts her body, emphasizing all its quirks. "Thank you, Bernie, everything is clearer now," Serena says to Bernie, who is at the other end of the line, and in the process, she thanks herself as well.

"You're welcome, my dear. But aren't you getting cold?" Bernie asks.

"Oh, god yes!" Serena exclaims, relieved that the topic is finally brought up. "And I really need to take my shower and get ready for tomorrow. Why don't you come see me at the hospital?" Serena invites.

"Seriously?" Serena hears Bernie shift positions, as if moving from lying down to sitting up. It makes Serena smile.

"Why not? Come during my lunch break, we can celebrate," Serena says as she takes a moment to prepare her shower items, letting Bernie consider her suggestion.

"I would love to. Curious to see Campbell at work."

***

BERNIE’S POINT OF VIEW

Who would have thought that Bernie Wolfe would willingly step foot inside a hospital? Making sure she had followed the instructions given by Serena, Bernie realizes she has indeed arrived at the right department. On her way through the long corridors, she crosses so many people moving from left to right that it starts to overwhelm her. She couldn’t refuse this invitation despite her aversion to hospitals. After all, Bernie has no control over the career chosen by the most magnificent and impressive woman Bernie has ever had the chance to meet.

It’s almost noon, the time agreed with Serena. Bernie now stands before large gray double doors. Her anxiety toward hospitals always tends to bring on hot flashes, which has led Bernie to remove her coat that she is holding tightly between her crossed arms. The butterflies of anxiety flutter in her stomach, so Bernie seeks solace in mental images of Serena: her adorable sense of humor, her open-mindedness, her boldness, and her beauty.

When Bernie thinks of Serena, she has imposter syndrome. How can Bernie imagine being worthy of such a renowned, accomplished, and respected woman? How can Bernie even conceive that, someday, she will welcome Serena in her booth, and stand above this woman to alter her body for eternity, inducing that famous mixture of pain and pleasure? Never before has Bernie been so afraid of failure and disappointment. Her deepest desire is to be considered Serena’s equal, seeing her as a perfect, inspiring, and exciting partner. Above all, Bernie recognizes Serena’s intelligence and sensitivity, and she can’t help but want to spend more and more time with her, again and again, enjoying their synchronicity as much as possible.

Driven, the tattoo artist gathers her courage, takes a deep breath, and steps through the doors.

The floor where Serena works is extremely noisy and busy, but structured and functional. She recognizes the reception desk in the center of the room and heads there to announce her arrival to the nurse posted there, but no one is around. All around her, there are activities surrounding a patient who refuses to cooperate, and Bernie can hear his shouts of protest.

Triggered, she closes her eyes forcefully and tries to block out the sounds of the cardiograms and monitoring equipment.

“Madam, you’re not authorized here,” a conceited voice brings Bernie back to reality.

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe you’ve gotten to the wrong department?” insists the employee sneeringly, staring at her with disdain and keeping an exaggerated physical distance.

Ah, here it goes again. Bernie never should have removed her coat because now her heavily tattooed arms, her collarbone, and part of her shoulders are exposed, since she’s only wearing a black t-shirt with a rather open neckline.

“Actually, I’m here to see Serena Campbell,” Bernie corrects her, keeping calm and not uncrossing the arms that are holding her coat tightly against her.

The employee continues to look her up and down, and inelegantly hides her arrogance. Of course, Bernie hadn’t considered the fact that her slightly torn skinny jeans showed more inked skin along her legs through the small holes. Probably the Dr. Martens don’t help her cause either.

“If this is about painkillers renewal—” the employee is immediately interrupted by Bernie, who is working hard to maintain her calm.

“I have an appointment with Serena,” she repeats civilly. Bernie is used to people making up all kinds of scenarios about her. However, she will always be offended by the association of her appearance with the one a junkie, especially since she’s never consumed any hard drugs.

“If this is to complain about a procedure, the best way is to go through our website and fill out the appropriate forms. Let’s not make a scene,” Bernie starts feeling a hot flash again, and suddenly, the tones of the machines become unbearably loud.

“Ah, my dear Bernie, welcome to the madhouse!” Heroically, Bernie’s tormented heart calms down. Serena’s delightful savior voice dismantles all the anxiety that had been building inside Bernie. The tattoo artist even feels her breath return to a steady rhythm in her friend’s presence.

The employee’s eyes widen, alarmed by the grave misjudgment she made regarding Bernie.

Before Bernie can even turn around to see her savior, the surgeon is already slipping a protective arm around hers. With this gesture, Serena ensures that Bernie feels grounded and supported. Moved, the tattoo artist is struck by Serena’s scent, a kind of mix of tropical flowers and a hint of wood.

Serena, in all her glory, with a jovial tone and a deadly gaze, is about to destroy the employee with wicked pleasure.

“If you want to make disparaging assumptions about the people who come to us for help, you will do it elsewhere from now on,” her statement is as sharp as a knife. “Please gather your belongings immediately.”

The employee is frozen in place, stunned by her dismissal. “Now!” and the employee scurries away.

Bernie doesn’t have time to process everything happening before Serena addresses another employee, asking them to take over at the reception desk.

Gradually, Bernie feels carried away by Serena, gently pushing forward, without releasing her arm. Serena guides them to her office. They walk together, arm in arm, through the cacophony of the department and the murmurs of the other employees who witnessed the scene.

“Aren’t you being a bit hard on her?” Bernie can’t help but sympathize with the employee, as she’s neither the first nor the last person to make assumptions about her.

“Oh, not at all! If this happened to you, it’s happened to other visitors. Only, this time, I was there to witness the behavior,” Serena opens the door to her office and enters first.

“It created quite a scene on the floor,” Bernie notes, turning around to observe the surroundings before stepping into the office and closing the door behind them.

“This hospital must be discrimination free; otherwise, we’ve failed in our duty to society,” Serena speaks eloquently, demonstrating her sense of justice. She’s fuming in place. Bernie is truly convinced that she has never met a woman as exceptional as Serena.

“A public dismissal instead of a disciplinary meeting, you are a rebel,” Bernie feels a sense of gladness from having been defended so decisively.

“Takes one to know one. Besides, I’m sure it sets the right example on what not to do,” Serena hopes, looking straight behind Bernie, as if she could see through the closed blinds on the window walls. She is still quite affected, walking in place, not yet calmed.

“Nevertheless, I could’ve avoided the situation. I could’ve put on—” Bernie is about to indicate her coat, but is interrupted by Serena.

“Never in a million years. Never should someone I care about—or anyone who comes here—be afraid to show their identity,” Serena assures, pointing toward the reception desk. “Do you hear me?” Serena is quite irritated.

And at that exact moment, Bernie fully understands that Serena is now the most indelible mark imprinted on her being. Serena becomes the empress of Bernie’s heart, brilliantly governing her daydreams and embodying the sublime creature of integrity and fairness that she’s always dreamed of. A warrior with a generous heart.

Bernie is hopelessly in love with this woman. She admires her with intoxication.

“It’s okay, Serena, I assure you,” Bernie tries to explain, feeling rather vulnerable being in a hospital, standing before this exquisite woman who has been unsettling her for so many days already.

Serena shakes her head, as if it could erase the incident that just took place.

“I’m glad to see you,” Bernie attempts, hoping this brings Serena back to reality.

It works. Serena finally sets her gaze on her, and they observe each other with gentle attention. Timidly, without speaking, Bernie steps a few paces closer to Serena, still with her arms crossed, holding her coat tightly. Up close, they can better admire the depth of their gaze. Once again, they find themselves in that silent and seductive tranquility, where they simply appreciate each other in the unspoken.

After a moment, Serena clears her throat. “I’m glad. I’m glad you’re not tired of me, your mid-life crisis customer,” she jokes, before gently taking Bernie’s coat from her arms and setting it on the back of the chair near the closed blinds.

“Sit down,” Serena points to a chair that has been specifically placed for Bernie, next to hers, behind her desk. Bernie complies, while Serena opens a drawer and searches for something. Bernie can't help but imagine the skin of her thighs – professionally speaking, of course.

Serena then turns around holding a few packaged plastic containers in both hands.

“I went to grab some sandwiches from the cafeteria. I hope that’s okay?” asks Serena. “I don’t think I can afford the luxury of leaving the office today, despite it being my lunch time.”

“I don’t mind at all; a sandwich sounds good.”

“I didn’t know your food restrictions, so I got a bit of everything. Tuna, chicken, veggie pâté,” Serena continues giving a little too much attention to the meal options, turning the packages around as if searching for hidden compartments.

“Anything is good for me.”

“Good, good,” Serena says, mostly looking at the plastic containers, rather than at Bernie.

“Are you okay?” Bernie asks, taking the liberty of softly tapping her finger on Serena's knee.

“Yes, yes, um. Can I be honest?” wonders Serena, still holding the plastic containers in each hand. She still does not look up.

Bernie tilts her head in disbelief. It’s clear that Serena can tell her anything. After all, the purpose of their meeting was about being open and vulnerable. Bernie pokes Serena's knee again with the tip of her finger. Serena looks up, finally. Bernie offers a playful smile, encouraging her to feel at ease.

Serena starts being demonstrative and enthusiastic, and Bernie discovers a giddily excited Serena.

“You are stunning!” Serena sobs in disbelief, still holding the sandwiches in both hands while gesturing. It sounds like she has been holding back on this acknowledgment. Serena looks free simply stating these words out loud.

Bernie blushes. She hadn’t expected this turn of events. Serena places the disregarded meals on her desk and moves her chair closer to Bernie.

“I don’t want to disrespect, but with the way those neon lights highlight your skin, I’m mesmerized,” Serena admits, looking at Bernie with unusual eagerness. “I’ve always wanted to tell you how much you impress me, but I didn’t want to be the cliché newbie who marvels at their artist.”

Soon-to-be-inked often has that effect on clients. Serena’s eyes are filled with admiration. Guessing exactly what Serena is precisely hesitant to ask, Bernie moves closer in her seat and raises her arms horizontally toward Serena, giving her permission to touch her.

Stunned, Serena looks at Bernie one last time, implying that she’s asking for permission.

Bernie consents, amused. “You can’t hurt me. Take a peek.”

With all the concentration and delicacy necessary to hold a baby, Serena gently takes Bernie’s right arm in both hands and gazes at it in fascination, unsure of where to begin. Under this lighting, Serena notices that the ink on this arm is more faded, less precise, and duskier. This must indicate that the tattoo is older. In some areas, the lines lack definition and have started to blur together, as if the ink had spread elsewhere than initially applied. It’s a massive pocket watch, with exaggeratedly large roman numerals. Its never-ending chain wraps around Bernie’s wrist and twirls up to her elbow. Alongside is the realistic portrait of a wolf, its profile facing up Bernie’s upper-arm towards her shoulder, and on its head, an emblematic crown adorned with diamonds and stones.

“This arm has the oldest and most clichés tattoos. Some of these drawings date back to when I was less selective. I’d go to any artist who respected my budget, no matter their talent,” Bernie explains, slightly intimidated by how close Serena is. “A wolf, a crown, and a pocket watch: these are the most common tattoos. Along the infinity symbol and butterflies.”

“Hey, I love the butterflies,” Serena teases, continuing her exploration of Bernie’s right arm.

Around these main pieces are smaller, independent tattoos, like the sketch of a bitten apple, flower silhouettes, a heart pierced by an arrow, a match, a cactus, the swallow bird. Some tattoos are more realistic, others minimalist, others traditional.

“We call those fillers. Little tattoos done in spare time. Empty spaces to fill,” Bernie explains. Serena notices they aren’t very good-looking. “They’re mostly done by apprentices. I often serve as a guinea pig for their first attempts on human canvases. It’s more fun than nice-looking.”

Serena notices several thick, dark spirals. It looks as though these lines don’t belong to the landscape, like a jet of water flowing and filling different parts of her skin.

“These are blackout cover-ups. They hide what’s underneath. Youthful mistakes or tattoos that no longer mean anything,” Bernie admits. Serena is surprised Bernie would admit to having tattoos that have become obsolete. “I like the look. They look like strips of fabric.”

“What are they covering-up? Come on, you can tell me!” Serena teases, getting closer to Bernie’s face, where she can’t hide. This is an incredibly vulnerable, yet exhilarating experience, for both of them.

"The coverups are there for a reason, Serena," warns Bernie with good humor.

Not receiving satisfaction to her curiosity, Serena continues her exploration with Bernie’s left arm. Again, Serena takes it in her hands as if it were fragile and irreplaceable. Bernie finds this candid gesture endearing, and she is touched by Serena’s care.

"Now, what is the story going on here," Serena recognizes that this arm has a completely different approach in style, execution, and subject. The ink is dark, fresh, and the details are sharp and precise. Not knowing much about the field of art in general, Serena recognizes that here, the ink seems to resemble more of a drawing type of soft, greasy charcoal and hard, dry pencil lead. Every inch of skin is used in the process.

"This is what we call a sleeve. It’s a very large piece conceived as a single subject, often an immense landscape—in this case, realistic. All parts create one story."

A vast forest of various trees and spruce covers the top of Bernie’s arm in a nocturnal landscape. In a masterful excursion, everything blends perfectly: the vertical trunks with asymmetrical leaves, the open spaces between branches; the moon, perfectly drawn with its craters and shadows; the sky is curiously completely black, allowing the moon to be white-grey-pinkish and the stars to illuminate the dark surface. A little lower, toward Bernie’s elbow, there are silhouettes of different animals at the foot of the forest, where a beautiful river begins to swirl and flow toward her wrist. Around this river, there’s cut-up logs of birch, situated next to a magnificent antique spinet.

Serena bends her head to get a better look at the forearm, and Bernie lifts it and turns it around. Then, Serena notices that next to the wooden piano are; a violin; a wooden-sculpted chair; a campfire with its flames rising high enough to reach the forest above; and the distinctive features of a magnificent barn owl.

“I’ve named this tattoo Allegory,” Bernie clarifies. “I was once very reclusive. Wouldn’t say hermit, but…” she does not finish her sentence.

Hypnotized by the overall portrait of the nocturnal story told on this arm, Serena tenderly slides the tips of her fingers along the tree trunks. This makes Bernie shiver. Serena then uses the roundness of her thumb to gently press where the campfire is, admiring the way the ink on the skin follows the slight pressure of her thumb’s movement.

This makes Bernie moan.

The moan breaks them out of their trance. Quickly, Serena releases Bernie’s arm, therefore Bernie can regain the use of it. Fully satisfied with her prying, Serena steps back a little, giving Bernie a chance to reclaim her personal space. Yes, Serena’s scent really does have that tropical floral and woody tone.

“It’s a remarkable piece of work,” Serena murmurs, gesturing to Allegory.

“Thank you. It took me years to be able to compliment myself, inked or not,” Bernie doesn’t understand where this urge to confide in Serena comes from, being someone who is usually mysterious and impassive with her clients, even with friends. Serena has this power of making it seem like nothing could disturb, annoy, or offend her.

“We women tend to be so merciless with ourselves,” Serena adds.

Suddenly, someone knocks at the door, but since Bernie has her back to it, she can’t see what’s happening. Serena signals for the person to come in. A nurse opens the door, without stepping into the room, and asks a very specific technical question. This leads to an elaborate discussion in medical terms, and Bernie is greatly impressed by this vocabulary with which she’s not at all familiar. Serena is kind of speaking in a foreign language, efficiently and quickly.

It didn’t even take a minute for the nurse and Serena to establish an action plan. How brilliant. Entire universes separate the daily life of a surgeon and a tattoo artist, yet so many precise details are shared between their professions.

"Sorry for the interruption. I can’t believe how much time has passed already. How about we eat our modest sandwiches?" After showing such ease with her colleague, Serena becomes rather adorably embarrassed and self-conscious when she’s alone with Bernie.

"Next time, I’ll invite you to dinner. A fine Italian restaurant with an extensive wine list," promises Serena, offering Bernie the choice to pick the sandwich she prefers.

Bernie randomly takes a package. "That’s an offer I can’t refuse," she reassures. She is already looking forward to it.

Her friend clumsily unwraps her meal. Serena seems hungrier than she let on. Bernie takes a bite in turn, and they eat in a contented silence.

Of course, Bernie notices Serena’s wandering eyes, focusing on the tattoo on her chest that starts near her collarbone, but neither of them comments on it.

They continue eating, and Bernie takes the opportunity to observe the office where Serena works. It’s larger than she imagined, and there’s not much decoration or personal effects, just filing cabinets and bookshelves.

"Do you work alone in this office?" Bernie begins, but Serena doesn’t listen to her and asks a question that’s been bubbling inside her.

"Why so much?" she exclaims louder than she intended. Ashamed, Serena puts down her sandwich and wipes her hands.

"Sorry?" Confused, Bernie chews her bite, not even sure she understood the question correctly since it was more shouted than asked.

Serena takes the time to phrase her question properly. "I mean, what motivates someone to get so many tattoos? Why cover one’s body like that?" Serena wonders, inhabited by good intentions.

The famous question that everyone asks her. However, the presence of genuine curiosity - never inappropriate - on Serena’s face convinces Bernie that it’s safe to answer. Respect and openness have always guided their exchanges.

"I realized that being tattooed could solve several problems. Of course, it creates others. But with ink, the whole body turns into a medium and a message. A warning. It symbolizes that I have control over myself,” Bernie pauses.

Serena nods, and makes a remark rather than a question. “But so much pain.”

Bernie sighs, and then smiles. “I’m bloody tough. So much temporary pain for permanent art. People are going to judge my existence anyway, so thanks to tattoos, they can focus on the obviousness of them before judging the more intimate aspects of my personality."

"So, it’s like diverting attention, fooling the strangers?"

"If you put it that way, but don’t go around spreading that information, it’s top secret in the tattoo world,” Bernie winks before taking a mouthful of the remaining piece of her snack.

Serena regains her usual ease and starts chuckling, putting away the plastic containers and the food wrap. “Blimey! I didn’t offer anything to drink.”

Bernie pushes the offer away with her hand, looking at the clock. “It’s alright. I’m guessing your lunch time is over, I better get going.”

Indeed, Serena had lost all sense of time, as she immediately looks at her watch and confirms that this is the case. Unfortunately, she only has a few minutes left.

They rise in tandem and end up face to face, their bodies just a few inches apart. The natural chemistry enveloping them returns to embrace them with a more assertive tenderness. The height difference between the two women is almost minimal, but Bernie still surpasses Serena by a few centimeters, and from this stance, Bernie feels like she possesses all the powers in the world to shield Serena, while conversely, Serena seems to hold all the power in the world to cast spells on her.

"Does talking about my journey make you feel more at ease with the choice you made to gift yourself a tattoo session for your 50th birthday?" Bernie needs reassurance, and her sentence is a whisper.

Serena replies, also whispering. "Yes," and Bernie can’t help but look at her inviting lips. She can feel Serena’s breath brush against her cheeks.

Except that Serena’s beautiful brown eyes aren’t looking at her; they’re instinctively directed toward her chest.

Bernie starts laughing loudly, which draws Serena’s attention.

"Serena, I don’t think I can show you those tattoos today," she warns, quickly regretting using the word today as it invites the possibility of an opportunity to do so another day.

Serena shakes her head, denying any interest. "Oh, I-I would’ve never,” she stutters, “- I-I couldn’t dare,” she continues, “Not here, at least," Serena justifies herself. Yet, she keeps gazing, her breath caught in her throat.

Serena, the warrior with a generous heart, the adventurer with an insatiable curiosity.

Why not give in? Hadn’t they just sworn how healthier it is to dare rather than stagnate? The whirlwind of synchronicity that envelops them influences their judgment, affects their rationality to replace it with enchantment.

Bernie intrepidly looks behind her, towards the door. There are no curious eyes. Bernie turns back to face Serena, who seems to understand Bernie’s preparation for the unveiling. Serena looks ravenous.

The brunette’s eyes darken at the instant. Serena is frozen in place, excruciatingly waiting. Ignoring how ludicrous the situation is, Berne grabs the hem of her t-shirt and lifts it up over her bra, a few inches away from Serena’s face.

Thus, Bernie reveals the entire surface of her upper body. It comes to Serena’s attention that Bernie’s chest, sternum, abdomen, hips, even her belly button, and implicitly her back—is completely covered in lines, shading, gradients, symbols, circles, and more! There’s so much to see, but in an instant, Bernie gradually lowers her shirt, hiding the masterpiece away. Serena had time to caught the outline of a disproportionate raven, it’s wings and feather covering most of Bernie’s skin, and also a snake with detailed scales circling around her silhouette.

Without fully realizing her action, Serena has raised a hand toward Bernie’s stomach and her hand is still mid-air, although Bernie has lowered her shirt. Serena’s fingers are ready to gently trace the surface of Bernie’s stomach, no longer exposed.

“Serena?”

Even Bernie recognizes a cavernous sound in her own voice. Her admirer remains frozen in place, breathing hurriedly. Unable to free herself from this state of bewitchment, Bernie rejoices in the blatant infatuation readable on Serena's face. Her slightly opened mouth lets out waves of breath.

And it is at this moment that Bernie feels Serena's hand ardently rest on her hip, establishing connection and pleasurable heaviness. Agitated by this long-awaited contact, Bernie allows herself to tenderly slide a hand on Serena's warm, pink cheek, and Serena promptly leans into her palm.

In a trance, the women languidly approach each other before propelling themselves into a sparkling kiss, in sheer rapture.

Carried away in this ceaseless maelstrom of feral need to melt into each other, to merge their bodies together, to discover all the imaginable warmth, Bernie and Serena intertwine their moans, while their tongues caress each other, their lips pressing and savoring moist textures. Their embrace grows in intensity, to the point where they risk losing their balance. Finally, their mouths calm down and the women catch their breath. Bernie still holds Serena's face in her hand, and Serena does not unroll her arms which hold tightly to Bernie's silhouette.

« Sorry, » Serena is breathless, disoriented and overwhelmed with joy.

Being more aware of their surrounding, they progressively loosen their hold before resuming to a more distant position, lips numb and wet.

“Why? I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” Bernie breathes out, completely enraptured.

Swept away by bliss, Bernie believes she has stopped time and altered the universe, because her lips still savor the pleasure of having kissed Serena Campbell.

A person knocks at the door, once more. Quickly, Bernie has the reflex to step back, giving Serena the space she needs to regroup. She swiftly wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Serena’s colleague enters the office and starts talking about charts.

Unable to process new information, Bernie hovers in a state of euphoria and disorder. She has the presence of mind to grab her coat before leaving the room, without having enough composure to look back.

Chapter Text

** BACK TO SERENA’S POV **

Under the impulse of wonder, did Bernie flee out of cowardice, repentant? Did she leave out of politeness so that Serena could attend to her professional duties? Overwhelmed by their forbidden and spontaneous kiss, does Bernie regret or enjoy this astonishing surprise? Which one of them initiated this boldness?

In any case, Serena thanks the instigator.

Hours have passed since their passionate kiss, since their thoughtless and instinctive embrace, and yet Serena still savors the texture of Bernie’s delicate lips pleasantly pressed against hers. She can still feel, at her fingertips, the fabric of Bernie’s clothes and the sensual warmth of her skin, just as she can still sense her breath caressing her cheeks.

During these obligatory hours within the hospital walls, Serena could not allow herself the pleasure, the luxury, the permission, or the chance to revisit this disruptive incident that turned everything upside down.

Fortunately, Serena is no longer in surgery nor in consultation. Now by herself in her office, seated in front of her computer, she reflects upon this event in complete safety, in freedom, in solitude, as she stares into the void and at the empty sandwich wrappers abandoned on the floor beside the wastebasket.

Having kissed Bernie Wolfe, after being encouraged to let her fingertips trace the delicate lines of her tattoos. At her workplace, enveloped in a gentle aura of permissiveness. In return, she had received the passion of that kiss from the one who had harmlessly warmed her heart.

She kissed her new friend—a woman her age, an artist, and like herself, navigating an unconventional path. The very same woman who is about to etch onto her skin the carefully conceptualized memory of Elinor. The one who looked at her with such tender, affectionate admiration…

Against all odds, Serena bursts into spontaneous laughter. The melody that escapes her throat bounces off the gray walls of the room and comes back to tickle her ears. Swept away by laughter that is more particular than amused, Serena is struck by her own boldness and her complete lack of remorse. Her shoulders shake under the momentum of her disbelieving happiness.

Randomly, at the end of the evening, exhausted, in this precise moment, Serena feels completely alive. Her laugh fills her lungs, clears her blood, reroutes the circuits of her brain, unlocks her aching muscles, refocuses her blurred vision, and unravels the entire structure of her being. And Serena realizes that she must thank Elinor for propelling her into this unexpected turning point.

Out of breath from the revitalizing and permanent smile on her face, Serena picks up her phone. Ignoring the fact that Bernie prefers texting over calls, she searches for The Wolfe in her contacts and puts the call on speaker.

It rings. Having no idea what she is about to say to her friend, Serena smiles even more, entirely free of apprehension. It rings. With no preparation, letting sincerity take the lead, Serena doesn’t even know the true reason for her call. She is simply happy and wants to hear Bernie’s voice. It rings. Serena takes a leap into the unknown, and she has never felt more ready.

Believing the call is about to go to voicemail, Serena prepares to hang up, but Bernie answers at the last second, slightly out of breath.

"Serena." Just one word as a greeting, and Serena could almost believe Bernie is right there beside her, warming up the room. However, she detects a hint of nervousness, as if Bernie’s voice isn’t entirely steady, a little apprehensive.

“Well, um, that was quite something, wasn’t it?” Serena breaks the ice. The cheerfulness in her voice remains, ready to take the leap, craving the boldness that had fueled them earlier. That unexpected, spectacular, delicious boldness.

“Yeah, it was,” Bernie’s voice remains stable.

“Hhmm,” Serena is content to say nothing more, happy to simply enjoy Bernie’s breathing and invisible presence. Except there are strange noises in the background. Could Bernie be in the studio? Regardless, Bernie doesn’t add anything, so Serena happily takes over the role of the orator.

« Like I said a few days ago, I never see the point in just one, » it’s a shame Bernie can’t notice Serena’s suggestive eyebrows and her expressive smirk.

Tension fills the air and Bernie remains silent for a long time. Serena even wonders if the line has been disconnected. “I, um…” Bernie tries to answer, except there is still noise in the background, as if Bernie is awkwardly moving objects, in the distance. Something falls, and the tattooist stammers a mumbled curse.

« Where in God’s name are you? » Serena asks, genuinely inquisitive, with furrowed eyebrows. All thoughts of subtly – or openly - flirting vanish as she senses Bernie is seriously distracted and preoccupied.

“At the studio, tidying up.” Hurriedly, Bernie’s tone becomes detached and factual.

“Oh, I thought you had the day off?” Serena probes.

“I came in to draw, um, after we’ve…” Bernie clears her throat. “Had to, well, clear my mind,” she confesses, more hastily than necessary.

So, Bernie must be cleaning the studio, as if trying to bring order to her thoughts. That much is clear. What else is there to do—keep both the mind and hands occupied—when no clear answers present themselves? When the very thing consuming her thoughts offers no relief from her inner turmoil? She might as well make herself useful and focus on a project.

Serena considers herself lucky; her schedule conveniently offered a vascular surgery here, a muscle repair there.

“Okay?” is all Serena can add.

She hears Bernie let out an exaggerated sigh. Clearly, this call won’t be as pleasant as Serena had hoped.

Will the elephant in the room be addressed? Had her boldness ruined everything? Had she been too enamored to notice her own foolishness? What went wrong—what had Serena misinterpreted?

Bernie begins to explain.

“I kissed you because I wanted to—” She cuts herself off.

Suddenly, on the other end of the line, there’s—again—a loud noise that makes Serena jump. Bernie picks up her sentence a few moments later. She’s either distracted or evasive.

“And beyond that, I wasn’t really thinking, you know?” she finishes, her words light, as if the weight of the statement would be easier to accept if it were brushed off, made to seem unimportant.

Is it Bernie’s tactic, to say things as quickly as possible to lessen their significance? What a shame they aren’t in the same room, where Serena could read her body language. And to think Bernie was here, right here, just a few hours ago…

“Me neither, needless to say,” Serena remains honest and dreamy, though increasingly less joyful. Of course, she hadn’t thought before kissing Bernie — they had been swept up in the dizzying spiral of their orbit. How could they deny the obvious spontaneity of it all?

Serena detects a superficiality in Bernie’s voice, as if she were trying to emotionally detach herself from the meaning of their kiss. Quickly realizing that this call wouldn’t take the revolutionary turn she had hoped for, Serena senses that Bernie’s chosen course is one of denial.

“I think we should toast our undeniable sexual chemistry and say no more about it,” Bernie suggests, firmly but calmly.

Serena no longer recognizes the confident, fearless Bernie she had fallen for. On the other end of the line, there’s only a cautious, distant Bernie, evading the beauty of their newfound connection.

What about living true to oneself? What happened to being brave enough?

Why this sudden change of heart? Their synchronicity, their similarity, their harmony — all of it had built up to this moment, had led them to this closeness.

Serena is perceptive, intuitive, and rarely mistaken. Refusing to let this new chapter of her life be dulled by deceptive inhibition or false denial, she addresses the situation immediately. Something is off.

“You want to forget it ever happened?” Serena tries to ask the question with complete neutrality, careful not to influence Bernie’s emotional process—acting like the exemplary surgeon who wouldn’t dare interfere in a patient’s critical decision.

Except that this professional reflex doesn’t serve her well here, in the realm of love.

There’s a pause, and Serena resigns herself to the fact that they have crossed that infamous boundary between professional and client.

Bernie feels as distant and unreachable as an astronaut floating in the darkness of the void, lost in the quiet vastness of space. And apparently, just as cold.

“I think it’s wise,” Bernie murmurs, suddenly having stopped all the noise around her, her voice sounding more desperate than she expected. Is she asking for help? Is she hoping to be convinced of the opposite? Are they not mature enough to be able to communicate openly?

I think it’s wise. And that’s the answer that seems valid in any context, in any situation where two former strangers, in spite of themselves, develop a spontaneous attraction, thanks to a professional opportunity. Not talking about feelings, not elaborating, just focusing on the transaction that needs to be done. Haven’t they gone beyond this stage of professionalism? Haven’t they deserved to abandon themselves to the chemistry that occurs at the simple mention of their names, at the innocuous glimpse of their faces, at the magnetism of their bodies? To hell with conventions!

"Can I ask why?" Serena tries to respect Bernie's choice, but in return, Bernie owes her the explanations for this turnaround. Thanks to her question, Serena has helped to pierce the abscess - she often treats them in the hospital - and finally, the tattoo artist finally finds the courage to explain the reason for her retreat.

“It’s… unethical of me, I’m sure you understand,” she pauses. “I am in a position of power – over money, permanency and pain.” Her tone is firm yet polite. She takes a long breath before resuming. It sends shivers down Serena’s spine.

“It will be your first tattoo, of sensitive nature. Who’s to say you’re not under the influence of transference or limerence?”

A light of epiphany lights up in Serena's mind. She thinks she might finally understand where Bernie's opposition comes from.

“But Bernie, it’s not like you’re my psychiatrist,” Serena tries to add with a little laugh, but Bernie does not wish to be interrupted. 

“I think the prospect of me working on such sensitive subject put too much pressure on you. Or influenced you, and you mixed the excitement of the project with feelings towards me.” Bernie declares, persuaded and dismayed.

«Listen, I do understand your concerns, but I can assure you it isn’t the case,” Serena tries to sound convincing, slowly massaging each side of her temples with both hands.

Bernie isn’t persuaded and quickly tries a different approach.

“What if you regret getting this symbolic tattoo, after going through the whole process, because it’s done by me? It’s…it’s wise not to go further, with, um, us, you know?”

Serena stands up, puts both hands on the curve of her hips and stares down at the cellphone. She understands that Bernie wants to reaffirm her position, but it all becomes puzzling. She does not appreciate this counter-argument and senses Bernie recede from her.

“Yet, I’ve liked the tattoo before I started liking you,” Serena only wants to redirect the conversation towards facts and not speculation. Then, she directs her gaze everywhere around the room, not liking how strangely awkward the conversation has become.

Being a naturally calm, reasonable and rational person, Serena surprises herself by suddenly leaning towards emotionality. She walks unevenly arounds her chair, fondles with her necklace, looks up at the ceiling. How bizarre it is for a heart to switch from serenity to disappointment, mixed with confusion, after going through the delicious freedom to feel, the peacefulness of laughter and the trance of falling in love.

Bernie interrupts Serena’s train of thought by continuing her observations.

“Alright, alright. But it isn’t like a haircut. Let’s not neglect the permanency. What if, when you’ll look at your tattoo, it’ll remind you of this, instead of Elinor?” Bernie’s electronic voice emanating out of the speakerphone almost sounds absurd now.

That does it. Serena takes her cellphone and sends Bernie a facetime invitation. It is not true that they are going to go through such a crucial discussion via the speakerphone. Serena needs to see Bernie, but Bernie refuses the invitation, does not even address it, and continues to speak via speakerphone. In front of the black screen, where there is no face of Bernie, Serena feels a coldness take hold of her being, feeling alone in front of this flagrant denial.

“Okay, then tell me just what this is, exactly…. What are you referring to, hmm?” She asks clearly, while gesturing between herself and the black screen of the phone.

« Serena, let’s simply regroup, here. You came to me first, for the draft of an idea of a tattoo to celebrate your 50^th –”

“And that you drew, without a deposit, as a whole piece of art instead of a simple doodle-” Serena sits down, almost laughing out of absurdity, keeps sending the facetime invitation, pushing repeatedly with her finger, and Bernie still declines. Both women keep interrupting each other’s sentences.

“Yes I did, based on the information given during our exchanges about your professional and personal life-”

“Bernie, we only had two meetings in person and during most of our conversations, we never actually talked about the details – we’ve spent the rest of our time getting fonder of one another!” Serena does sound irritated, does not know where to look because Bernie isn’t here and does not want to appear on the screen.

“-Serena, I don’t understand why you’re suddenly mad at me?” Bernie is surprised, and the loud noises of Bernie’s tiding up at the studio are back, meaning she is becoming less mentally present in the conversation, slowly backing away, again.

“I am not mad! Oh god, Bernie. Don’t you see? You are the most fantastic, fearless…farseeing person... I’ve ever met!” Serena pauses to breathe, acknowledging the stillness of the moment and the emergence of this admission. “And God knows I’ve met my share of people. Bloody hell, why won’t you accept that damn facetime…thing?” Serena pleas, half-laughing, half-imploring.

Bernie goes – finally – silent and the racket stops.

It seems like time and space are floating. Serena can only hear their heavy breathing, as if they have run a cerebral marathon.

And unexpectedly, Serena’s cellphone’s screen lightens up and the pixels materialize the colors and shape of Bernie’s face. The image is crooked, as if the phone was placed upright, leaning unsteadily on something. The background is almost pitch black and the only source of light is a bright support light placed on Bernie’s worktable. Bernie looks tired, displeased and does not look at the camera. Her blonde hair is a mess and she is as beautiful as ever.

Serena takes the phone in both hands and holds it affectionately.

“Look at me,” Serena gently implores, and Bernie does. At last, they can stare into each other’s eyes, even if it’s only through a screen. Serena is mesmerized by the roundness of Bernie’s warm chocolate-colored eyes and their stirring depth.

Serena feels the wonder of a soft smile on her own face, a gentle and comprehensive smile, and Serena is convinced how affectionately that expressive smile conveys all of her fondness. The surgeon’s intuition tells her to soften her approach towards Bernie’s anxious state.

“Oh, how beautiful your eyes are,” Serena comments, unable to suppress the thought. Its magic works, because it makes Bernie huff and blush. That’s more liking.

“Do you let other client touch your skin and kiss them at their workplace?” Serena asks openly, as if the question was as standard as any other, keeping a hint of seduction in her intention.

“Of course not!” Bernie replies manifestly. Her gaze is still on Serena’s smile.

“Well then, doesn’t it speak for itself? It’s not one-sided. You know this, Bernie. You are intuitive.” Serena reaffirms, her voice as sweet as honey, as soft as a warm breeze.

Serena’s heartfelt compliment breaks Bernie’s protective barrier.

Bernie looks away, her profile is no longer centered in the small rectangular shape of the screen. Serena only sees blonde hair, an ear and part of her neck. Bernie takes time to gather her thoughts and when her face gets back on the screen, her eyes are watery and her face is flushed. 

“We’ve become such close friends,” her voice is so gentle, Serena needs to focus in order to hear the almost-whisper. “And I’ve destroyed too many friendships in my life,” Bernie continues before looking away, lost in her memories, and then looks back at Serena. “I don’t want to destroy ours. I don’t want to interfere in your… mourning process,” Bernie’s voice breaks a little and she crosses her arm, as if this gesture would keep the emotions inside her soul.

Serena is obviously moved by this confession. This clumsy empathy reflects both Bernie's inner insecurities and her extreme sensitivity. The surgeon then realizes that she should not have been offended by the tattooist's excessive precaution, but rather rejoiced by it.

“You’re bringing affection in a painful act of healing through immortalisation. I’d say it’s a bonus,” Serena comments, trying to deescalate the emotive crescendo. “I’m glad to have someone like you with me, through this. Sensitive, intelligent, talented…gorgeous. »

Her gaze never leaves the screen. Serena doesn't want Bernie to feel any disengagement from her, especially not at this fragile stage of their delicate discussion.

Bernie keeps coming back to the same fact. “But it’s permanent.”

“But neither of us are, at the end, aren’t we?” Serena shrugs her shoulders. “Statistics are clear, 50-year-old is past middle age,” she laughs. “All this worry, and I might die tomorrow. Elinor is evidence,” her voice is serious but light at the same time.

Her rational perspective does comfort Bernie, who nods and it makes her blonde hair bounce a little.

“I just don’t want to hurt you, because I care about you…. I more than like you.” This time, Bernie stares straight at Serena, her expression vulnerable and serious.

Serena sighs happily and sits back in her chair, still holding the phone closely to her face. Fearless they are, daring they will be. “I do as well,” Serena replies.

“Although, about hurting me, doesn’t it come with the territory of needles?” Serena laughs, holding the phone with one hand and placing the other close to her necklace, appreciating the cold texture of her jewellery.

Bernie smiles and maintains silent, as if expecting more reassurance from her friend.

“I do want this tattoo, in its entirety, and it so happens that you are the brilliant mastermind. You know as much as I do how rare it is to find such a promising chemistry…especially at our age!”

“You make it sound like we’re old age,” Bernie feigns offense.

“Well, not geriatric yet, but...” Serena teases, before resuming. “I would be delighted knowing we’ve dared…about us. And if our chemistry was only temporary, well at least we’d enjoyed it while it lasted. I walk away with an incredible tattoo, and you will a well-earned paycheck. Do we have a deal?”

Bernie seems to relax, finally unwind. Has Serena finally convinced her, for good? Oh, how Serena would love to top it off with another flirtation, but Serena understands that Bernie has had her share of torn emotions today.

“It’s time, I think. We’ve got enough certainties and we’ve waited long enough. Let’s do this tattoo. I’m ready. Are you?” Serena takes the lead, inviting Bernie to follow her. « And I’m not pushing it out of the way only to be able to snug you again.”

Bernie laughs – her honking laugh! Serena’s effortless enthusiasm and her sense of repartee have always charmed Bernie from the beginning.

“When would you be available?” Bernie inquires, decided. The subversive, strong-minded, go-getter glow returns to her brightened face.

At last! Serena rejoices.

*****

Exactly four days have passed since their eventful and revealing tête-à-tête over the phone. Four days of fantasizing, of apprehension, of rejoicing. During these four days, Bernie and Serena have only chatted briefly by text message, without wanting to go into much depth until the tattoo was done. And today is the big day.

It is a less than two hours before noon and Serena’s cellphone vibrates on the kitchen table as she packs her bag for the session.

“Still ok?” The Wolfe asks.

Serena doesn’t waste a second in responding. “Count me in!”, she replies, instead of I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.”

Immediately, small dots of writing appear at the bottom of the conversation. “We’ll go through this together,” the artist replies.

“I trust you,” Serena adds with a smile, before laying the cellphone down to continue her preparations. The tone of another text message interposes. Tickled, she picks up the phone to read the message.

“I promise not to turn the session into a sapphic angst fest.”

Serena has to reread the message several times to make sure she hasn’t misinterpreted it. She even brings the cellphone closer to her eyes, as if that will help. She has read correctly, and it’s exactly the kind of bold humor that stimulates Serena’s mind. Mouth agape; breath caught; warmth coursing through her body; Serena is delighted by Bernie’s daring.

She responds immediately. “And I promise I will manage, for today!” Flustered by her own response, Serena excitedly puts her cellphone down again, giggling.

It was difficult to coordinate their schedule. Bernie agreed to work during one of her days off, and Serena made sure to have a replacement in her unit for today and for tomorrow, but more importantly, she also planned a second replacement in case the first had to be absent.

Serena hadn't felt this nervous about a personal event in a long time. She is currently fighting off with rationality the little butterflies struggling in her stomach. Anticipation mixed with apprehension and recklessness. The kind of buildups that can be tempered by coffee, but no. Tattoo sessions do not recommend it, too exciting for her heart and for the guts. At least, for the first one.

While Serena would usually have greatly enjoyed her morning coffee, this time she only stares at her coffee maker out of the corner of her eye, falsely bitter. Instead, she pours herself a large glass of orange juice, very cold and invigorating.

Not far away in the kitchen is Jason. Of course, Serena’s nephew, proud protector, wants to accompany Serena on this special occasion, but does not want to be present at the actual tattoo session. So, Jason insisted on getting a copy of the list of instructions that the studio sends to all clients before their session. Obviously, despite the fact that Serena has already read this list, always as methodical, Jason insists on reviewing the pre-tattoo instructions point by point, while Serena prepares herself a light breakfast.

As Serena sits down at the table with her lukewarm oatmeal and resigns herself to drinking her tall glass of orange juice, replacing her forbidden but much-desired coffee, Jason stands next to Serena, holding the instruction sheet in both hands. He recites the instructions out loud to his aunt who doesn't seem to be paying attention, but who, out of politeness, nods at each statement.

"No alcohol or coffee the night before and the morning of," Jason seems more serious than he should be. Maybe he doesn't believe his aunt can do without her two favorite addictions, even for a short period of time.

"Check!" Serena confidently says, lifting her half-empty glass of orange juice as proof.

When Jason doesn't continue reading, Serena looks up at him. He doesn't speak. "And no alcohol last night, either" Serena clarifies, oddly offended. Satisfied, Jason continues reading.

“Don’t take any anti-inflammatory medication before the procedure, because it thins the blood and can cause more bleeding,” his tone of voice is still so serious.

“Check,” as a surgeon, this is no revelation.

“Bring a bottle of water and snacks high in sugar and protein, like a granola bar or small chocolates, in case you feel faint.”

Serena likes this part of the list. With her mouth full, she only points to a bag that sits on the opposite side of the table, as if to indicate that everything she needs is inside of it.

“Make sure you have shaved or waxed the area to remove any hair.”

“Check!” Luckily, her thigh isn’t that hairy, so it wasn’t too hard. Serena wonders what happens when the client forgets that aspect. Does the artist shave it for them? Like her surgical team does before an incision?

“During the session, wear clothes that give access to the tattoo area,” Jason pauses. “It’s on the thigh? So, you’ve packed a pair of shorts?” Jason wonders.

“Yes love, also in the bag,” Serena reassures, having just finished her breakfast. She stands up to rinse her dishes, now facing away from Jason who continues reading.

“After the session, wear clothes that aren’t tight so you have range of motion.”

Serena tilts her head to look at her current choice of pants. Awful faded cotton leggings, but oh so comfortable. Serena is convinced that these are the same leggings that Rocky (the boxer) wears during his work-out sessions outside. Very flattering. This will do the job perfectly.

“At the end of the session, a hypafix second-skin plastic shield will protect the area and prevent dirt and bacteria from penetrating the tattooed skin. A buildup of fluid will form under the plastic, a mixture of water, plasma, blood and ink.” Serena winces. How strange it is to be at the other end of the procedure.

“It is important not to puncture this bubble of fluid and to keep the shield on for a period of 3 days, according to your artist’s recommendations.”

Serena could swear Jason is reading post-operative instructions. Despite the fact that getting a tattoo was her own decision, she tries not to worry about all the implications of such a choice. Bernie had already reassured her about hygiene and healing, but Serena is well aware that the pain would be very real, both during and after the session.

The surgeon tries to put herself in her patients’ situation, because they occasionally require to accept a risky procedure during an emergency, without any preparatory period, and Serena remembers how well she manages to guide them with her reassuring words—just as Bernie had done for her.

"Plan to rest for the remainder of the day, and ideally the following day as well. Expect some inflammation, redness, and discomfort when walking or moving. An itching period will last longer, afterwards, and resist the urge to scratch it away," Jason recites the list as if he were assembling IKEA furniture.

Understanding the importance of resting to allow her body to respond properly after the session, Serena had already checked with her replacements about their availability today. She would never cancel this session. Too many factors are at play: proving she can honor her commitment to Elinor, savoring the exhilarating thrill of her first tattoo, receiving a meaningful work of art in tribute to her daughter, basking in Jason’s admiration for his aunt’s bold decision, embracing the rebellious thrill of such a gesture at fifty, and watching Bernie, captivated by her skill and precision as she works within her element.

"And finally, make sure you've had a good night's rest," Jason concludes, pleased to have reviewed the list with his aunt.

Serene, Serena is delighted to affirm that, yes, her night was peaceful. Her dreams conjured the presence of a protective, reassuring, and splendid Bernie. A Bernie as real as reality itself, who accompanied her through every cycle of sleep—deep and thrilling; light and fleeting; whimsical and blushing. But Bernie wasn’t the only companion in her restorative night. The reminiscent figure of Elinor, in all melancholy, was also looking at her, from afar, happy.

Yes, Serena is ready.

Serena and Jason are currently in the car, on their way to the studio. Serena recalls the day of her celebration when she drove down this road leading to Eternal-Inked for the very first time. The state of mind she was in then was so different, so innocent, completely unaware that at her destination, she would meet Bernie Wolfe, who would offer her the gift of a lifetime. Despite the novelty of this day, Serena feels in perfect control of her destiny.

What thoughts are currently crossing Bernie’s mind?

For obvious ethical and procedural reasons, surgeons cannot operate on members of their own family or close friends. Given Bernie’s reservations and hesitations, it seems that she follows this same code of practice. But, as responsible adults, they both agreed to proceed since the purpose of their meeting was to complete this tattoo. They cannot be blamed if the laws of attraction have decided to redefine the nature of their connection.

How does Bernie prepare for her sessions? If Serena relies on the professional similarities they share, Bernie would be both eager and focused.

From a technical standpoint, the operating table and the tattoo table are treated with the same level of importance, where all preparatory steps are meticulously followed—cleaning the workspace, preparing the necessary equipment, and sanitizing tools and surfaces.

From a psychological perspective, there is the drive to accomplish something meaningful and the excitement of taking pride in a job well done. There is also the hope of satisfying the patient/client, while in the back of her mind lingers the whisper of a fear of making a mistake—a presence strong enough to serve as a reminder that this is not about arrogance but about true expertise.

The only difference between Serena’s and Bernie’s professions lies in the degree of life-or-death risk. But even then, the permanence and symbolism of a tattoo come close to being a form of life accompaniment.

Oh, and one more difference: the scrubs. Serena is openly resentful that Bernie gets to avoid wearing that atrocity!

As they arrive at the studio entrance, Serena takes a deep, resolute breath. The crisp air, which tinges her cheeks with a slight flush, flows through her nostrils and sends a surge of energy straight to her heart.

Unconsciously, Serena reaches for her necklace, hidden beneath the collar of her coat, letting it slide between her fingers while her gaze fixes on the studio’s name etched into the wooden frame.

Ever the gentleman, Jason opens the studio door as if to ease the next step, and just before letting Serena walk in ahead of him, he turns to his aunt.

"Elinor would be very proud of you today," he states with a smile, adjusting his glasses with the tip of his index finger.

More moved than she lets on, Serena takes a few seconds to fully absorb the moment.

"Yes, I think she would," Serena replies, taking another deep breath, a small smile curling at the corner of her lips. This is the day.

They step into the studio, greeted by the chime of the doorbell. Serena have almost forgotten how much she appreciates the eclectic and welcoming atmosphere of the place—especially the turquoise walls, adorned with all kinds of portraits, graffiti, and paintings. The flamingo with sunglasses is still there, as are the polished coffin, the upside-down traffic light post, and the brown chesterfield that has embraced its fair share of clients.

However, this extravagance makes one person very, very uncomfortable.

“This décor makes no sense,” Jason blurts out, visibly perplexed. Arms hanging stiffly at his sides, he stands frozen, unsure where to look—until he suddenly jumps upon noticing the massive chandelier randomly splattered with paint.

“It’s supposed to be like that, my dear boy. Come on, I think we need to take off our shoes,” Serena informs him as she also removes her coat.

This idea terrifies Jason to the highest degree, but luckily, he is saved by Charlotte’s arrival.

“No need to take off your shoes if you’re staying in this section of the studio,” Charlotte declares, instantly becoming Jason’s hero by granting him this exemption. “You can sit on one of our sofas and browse through one of our many history books or comic books.”

Jason does not need to be told twice. He sits on the sofa closest to the exit and eagerly picks a book, desperate to block out the overwhelming décor around him.

Charlotte, whose beauty is entirely different from Bernie’s, turns to Serena and winks. It now seems obvious that Bernie has already informed Charlotte about her nephew’s particular quirks.

"How are you feeling, Serena?" Charlotte inquires as she steps closer—quite close—to Serena. The proximity of bodies and personal space doesn’t seem to be an issue in the world of tattooing, and come to think of it, not in the hospital world either.

"Nervous, but happy… if that makes sense?" Serena anxiously rubs her surprisingly damp palms together. She is delighted to see Charlotte again. The fact that she is standing so close, despite them not knowing each other personally, makes Serena feel as though an entirely new and promising universe is unfolding before her—one that extends beyond just the world of tattoos.

"Of course it does. Let me fetch your consent form, and I’ll be right back," Charlotte responds enthusiastically.

She heads to the reception desk, leaning toward her screen to select a document for printing. Now that Serena knows Charlotte is Bernie’s daughter, her curiosity spikes—she wishes she had more time to get to know her. But now is not the accurate moment.

Serena notices that Bernie and her daughter share the same aquiline nose and a few beauty marks on their faces, along with large, hazel-colored eyes.

While waiting, Serena takes the liberty of glancing toward the larger section of the studio. The reception room is separated by a thin wooden paravent, sculpted with filigree shapes in its middle, which means the wall is a see-through. The border of the paravent shows meticulously craved roots and thorns. The opening is an elevated swing door. On the other side is the artist's area with tables and counters but Serena is not able to see much from where she is standing.

Charlotte casually positions herself in front of Serena, and this makes Serena jump.

« Didn’t mean to startle you,” Charlotte apologizes.

“It’s quite alright. I guess I’m more nervous than I let on.”

“Good thing I have this consent for you, to be sure you’re still okay with the procedure,” Charlotte hands her a clipboard with a full page of policy and warnings. “It’s formality, but as a surgeon, I’m sure you understand, but do take time to read all paragraphs, if you please, and sign at the bottom.”

Apparently, Bernie really did talk to Charlotte about her—otherwise, how would the young woman know she was a surgeon? What other details might her mother have shared about her? Probably just as few as Serena had mentioned to Jason.

"Will do," Serena confirms before sitting beside Jason on the Victorian sofa—which, regrettably, is quite uncomfortable.

A few minutes pass as she reads through the consent form. Jason breaks the silence—and Serena’s concentration.

"Is that a mechanical drilling sound?" he asks anxiously, referring to the rapid, muffled buzzing of the tattoo machines already at work on other clients. Serena hadn’t even noticed the steady hum of the machinery until now.

And that’s when Bernie pushes through the swinging doors and joins them at the reception area.

Seated on the sofa, Serena suddenly feels like the smallest person on the planet, entirely overwhelmed by the imposing and magnetic presence of The Wolfe. It feels as though she is seeing Bernie for the first time—falling under her spell all over again, completely and unashamedly. Instantly, the scent of coconut fills the room.

"Serena," Bernie simply says her name as a greeting, nothing more, tucking her hands into her pockets. Her sultry voice reverberates through Serena’s chest, just like her piercing, captivating gaze that seems to see straight into her soul. She’s wearing a navy-blue T-shirt and black skinny jeans.

"Bernie," Serena responds in kind, merely saying her name, before quickly rising to her feet. And just like that, they find themselves face to face for the first time since their spontaneous, passionate kiss.

They stand there, openly and lengthy gazing at each other— love-struck—in the silent language of unspoken fondness, in the middle of the reception area.

“Oh, you are auntie Serena’s friend Bernie.”

Jason’s voice pulls the two women back to the present moment. They have to blink their eyes a few times before both turning toward him.

"Your hair is much better than she described it," he comments, still seated, his book resting on his lap.

Indeed, Bernie has tied her hair into a small ponytail. The gathered portion is so tiny that it’s almost endearing, though her bangs remain as wild as ever, tousled across her forehead. Serena hadn’t noticed before how large Bernie’s ears were—but not as big as her own.

"You must be Jason, lovely to meet you," Bernie greets him from a distance, not stepping away from her close proximity to Serena.

"Jason is having a bit of a hard time with your eclectic décor," Serena explains, unsure what to do with the clipboard she’s holding with both hands. She feels like a schoolgirl about to hand in her test to her teacher.

"Ah, yes, I can imagine. We tend to forget it’s even here since we focus on other details," Bernie responds, her gaze lingering tenderly on Serena. Once again, they get lost in each other’s eyes.

"I’ll hang around with Jason, you two go on," Charlotte encourages, slipping between the two women to retrieve the signed consent form. The employee can’t quite hide a form of complicity that goes beyond mere professional hospitality toward regular clients.

« Jason, this may take a few hours. You don’t have to stay here at all times, you know?” Serena informs, but Jason is already back at his reading.

« Let’s go, then. You’re stuck with me for the day,” Bernie teases.

"I guess I am. Lead the way."

And suddenly, Serena starts to feel truly nervous, as the moment is becoming factual. She grabs her bag and follows Bernie.

They pass through the wooden swinging door and enter the shared common space, partitioned into various individual workstations. Guided by a delicious sense of anticipation, they move together toward the very back of the room, walking past other occupied cubicles.

Just like during their first meeting in this place, Serena walks behind Bernie as she leads the way. This gives Serena the chance to try and steady herself, practicing equalized breathing without Bernie noticing.

During this short walk, Serena becomes acutely aware of every sound—the buzzing of the machines, the hum of printers, the distant murmur of conversations—and every scent—the sharp smell of disinfectants, the mix of various creams, perhaps even a faint whiff of sweat coming from the cubicle to the right, and, of course, the ever-present fragrance of coconut.

Finally, Serena recognizes Bernie’s cubicle at the very back. Consequently, it’s true—this secluded position has a real advantage. No visitors can wander this far. The thought of not having curious eyes on her body is a great relief.

As she remembered, fixed on the wall, wooden shelves store perfectly settled bottles of ink, sorted by color gradient. Over the shelves hangs a beautiful drawing of the cartoon version of Wonder Woman that overlay almost the entire portion of her wall. Under the shelves is her counter, where she stocks equipment and machines, some even have long pipes and cables. Serena also recognizes the massage table she will be lying on, only this time, the blue fabric covering is protected by a plastic bib.

Serena’s rational mind, which enjoys to plan everything in advance, suddenly shifts its full attention to the technical aspects of the procedure—likely a reflex of professional conditioning. She quickly notices that Bernie’s workstation is meticulously prepared.

A white absorbent bib covers the counter, which itself is wrapped in polyethylene plastic. On the counter are neatly arranged: bottles of ink sorted by color gradient, a jar of petroleum jelly with a wooden spatula, about ten small empty plastic vials, a plastic cup filled with water, a box of nitrile gloves, a roll of paper towels, sterilized pouches containing individually wrapped needles, and a few bottles sprays whose contents Serena does not recognize.

From experience, Serena knows that Bernie has thoroughly sterilized the entire space before setting up her equipment. As for the machine itself, to prevent the transfer of germs, both its handle and cord are wrapped in plastic film.

"Does the surgeon approve of the station?" Bernie notices Serena inspecting the setup with professional focus.

"It’s not too shabby," Serena compliments, approving.

And that’s when, out of the corner of her eye, Serena spots it—the drawing of Elinor’s heart, placed on a table off to the side. Serena stops breathing. Blindly, she reaches for Bernie’s arm, gripping it tightly.

In black and gray, a perfectly detailed and proportioned heart is located in the center of the image, suspended in the air. Without being too graphic in the definition of the vessels and the tissues of the muscular walls, the heart is realistic, with its shadows and folds. The veins that descend downward are defined by simple fine lines and the ventricles aren’t too thick to disturb the eye. Around the heart, like an embrace, is Serena's necklace, sheltering. Behind the floating heart, as a background, is drawn an ancient page of newspaper whose contours are not squared but rather worn, aged, wrinkled. It looks like a sheet of history, a symbol of antiquity whose letters are blurred, some are larger, others smaller. In some places, sentences are represented by horizontally extended lines with ups and downs, like the lectures of an electrocardiogram.

Serena feels dizzy, as if she were out of oxygen. It seems as if the heart in front of them is beating tranquilly, abundantly alive, propelled by the ancestral writings of the old parchment newspaper it rests on.

“Are you okay?” Bernie worries, placing a reassuring hand between her friend’s shoulder blades, for fear that Serena might tumble. It’s as if Serena has seen a ghost.

“Are you feeling nauseous?” Bernie worries between two troubled breaths. Astounded, with a tear sliding down her cheek, Serena turns to Bernie as if she holds all the answers to the mystery of the universe. She dives into her gaze as if it were filled with constellations and Serena deeply thanks the universe for having led her to Bernie’s miraculous intuition.

“It’s so much more beautiful in person, in paper, I mean…” Serena tries to explain, but her voice is choked with emotion. The words won’t come out, weakened by amazement. Relieved, Bernie smiles warmly at her, not removing her hand from her back. Instead, she creates small reassuring circles with the palm of her hand. In doing so, it creates a small nest of warmth between them.

“Let’s try it on you, won’t we?”

Serena shakes herself, literally and metaphorically. She clears her throat and tries to collect herself. She starts moving, to reactivate her energy. She puts her bag on the floor, near the massage table on which she will lie down later.

« Of course. I’m so sorry. How do we begin?” Motivated, Serena waits for Bernie’s instructions.

“Well, I’ve printed out various sizes of the drawing on regular white paper. Once you’ve changed into your shorts, we’ll go in front of the mirror, and I’ll place each of them, one by one, per size, over your thigh and we’ll decide which one suits you better.”

“I’m guessing the bigger size, the bigger the pain?” Serena deducts.

“In a way, yes. Bigger means more needle time. Also, the price follows the size and complexity. You did mention money isn’t a problem?” Bernie wants to make sure.

“Nope. Worth all the money in the world,” Serena assuredly states.

Bernie nods and continues the step-by-step explanations.

"Once we decide on the preferred size, I’ll set up the stencil machine," Bernie explains, gesturing toward Serena’s thigh. "It will print the design onto carbon paper in washable ink, which I’ll then place directly on your skin. Once everything is set up at the station, I’ll trace over the design with my machine," she continues, motioning toward her equipment. "That’s when the real process begins—when the ink is pushed into your skin through the needles." Bernie is completely in her element. She talks a lot with her hands, and Serena can barely focus.

“But, um, Bernie… before actually starting the process, what if I’m not sure about the placement of the stencil - ”

Bernie interrupts Serena in order to immediately reassure her. “Oh, stencils are washable. We can change the placement as much as you like.”

Serena sighs in relief, thankful.

“I will never start tattooing unless you have made it clear that you are happy with the placement,” Bernie stares into Serena’s eyes, looking for certitude.

“Understood,” confirms Serena.

They both smile in silence, content, waiting…

“Well, I better get changed,” Serena suggests.  

“Sure, there is a bathroom at your left,” Bernie points towards the hall.

“Oh, can I change here instead? I don’t need the loo. I mean, you will see a great deal of my skin today, anyways…” Serena is afraid of sounding ridiculous, as her thoughts are all over the place.

“As you wish. I don’t mind. I’ll set up the folding screen to give us some privacy.”

As Bernie sets up the screen, Serena pulls her shorts from her bag and slips out of her ugly—but undeniably comfortable—leggings. As she undresses, a memory strikes her: the day she ran her fingers down Bernie’s tattooed arms in her office. How it had felt—sensually forbidden yet entirely allowed. She has no idea what kind of tattoos adorn Bernie’s long legs, and she takes a mischievous pleasure in imagining the designs hidden beneath those skinny jeans—respectfully, of course, out of simple curiosity. The thought keeps her cheerfully distracted from the pain of the needles awaiting her.

“What’s so funny?” inquires a curious Bernie reacting to Serena’s oversized smile, equally smiling.

Bernie’s question distracts Serena and she almost fall over when a toe gets caught in the hem of her shorts.

“Oh, nothing! I guess I’m difficult to follow today,” says Serena. “I’m not like my usual self, as this is an unusual setting,” she affirms as she continues to put on her shorts.

“This feeling will pass once you’ll get accommodated. Give is a few minutes and you’ll feel more at ease.”

Serena finds it difficult to believe, but she trusts her friend. She has now switched from her leggings to her petite black shorts.

“Alright, let’s turn around towards the mirror.” It is placed in the corner of the room, close to a stack of supplies.

“Which thigh?” Bernie asks, holding a small pile of cut-out paper, looking straight at Serena but through the reflection of the mirror, standing by her side.

“The left one,” replies Serena with confidence.

“The side of the heart, of course.”

It feels funny to be in shorts and socks, when Bernie is so beautifully dressed. It feels even funnier to have Bernie around, because the last time Serena admired herself like this in front of the mirror was when she was completely naked, in her own bathroom, making peace with the imperfections of her body. Serena loves the contrasts of Bernie’s heavily inked skin and her own blank and pale skin. And Serena knows she does not have to worry about her flappy skin.

Bernie only leans her upper body, arching her back forward, holding a few samples of different sizes. One by one, Bernie holds out a drawing and hovers it over Serena’s thigh and they stare at it together in the mirror. The first ones are indeed too small, and then some medium sized do look promising. Both women quickly disregard the bigger pieces. They go through the process once more, disregarding a few more until they have a general idea. The drawing will be placed a few inches over Serena’s knee in order to be well centered, and will not start too closely to Serena’s shorts.

“Yes, this piece. Approved.” They both nod. The size is approximately 8 inches per 6 inches.

“Great. I’ll go to the stencil printer and I’ll hurry back,” Bernie informs before actually heading out of the cubicle and leaving Serena alone with her thoughts, her emotions, her pulse racing, her sweaty palms…

“Oh, my goodness, I still can’t believe I’m doing this!” voices Serena, alone in the cubicle, before hiding her face in her hands, muffling her excitement. This truly is unexplored territory.

This is it, Elinor. You made it happen. Serena’s heart beats in agreement with her daughter’s inspired heart, their melody harmonizing with all of these new feelings anchored in this very unique instant. Magically, Serena senses the touch of gentle fingers caressing her shoulder and Serena looks up and sees Elinor looking back at her, in the mirror, standing behind her mother and smiling proudly. Serena puts her hand over Elinor’s resting on her shoulder.

All of Serena’s body and spirit becomes tranquil; no headache, no backache, no digestive problems, no anxiety. Just pure presence of mind and emotional availability. 

“Got the stencils.” Bernie is back in their booth, holding a different type of paper. She readjusts the foldable screen.

Lost in her thoughts, Bernie’s return makes Serena jump. “God! Wear louder shoes, please?” Serena asks for mercy, mockingly.

Bernie comically acts contrite. She sets the stencil on a secured place on the work surface.

“Alright, now I’m going to shave, cleanse and sanitize your thigh. Do I have your consent?”

Serena looks at Bernie with the most perplexed look. “Of course you do.”

“It’s my job to double-check,” Bernie clarifies. “Just like you do at work.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry,” Serena breathes out.

“It’s going to be okay, Serena,” Bernie says, putting gloves on, holding out a razor and the whole situation looks silly.

They burst into laughter and it breaks the tension. Serena tells herself that she is here under her own free will and it’s a one-time life experience, especially under the care of such a precious friend. Lover? No, she will not to there, yet.

“Let’s get back to business,” and Bernie squats. Serena yelps because Bernie is down on both knees to have better access to Serena’s left thigh.

“Now I’m shaving the area to remove the presence of any hair,” Bernie explains before applying foaming soap out of a bottle and spreads it over her thigh with her gloved hand. She puts one hand on Serena’s skin for support and cautiously shaves. Then, she rinses the area before drying it off with a paper towel. Once more, a liquid is sprayed on her skin to sanitize. 

Serena feels silly, waiting in silence while her thigh receives so much attention. She even looks around to make sure no one is watching.

“Alright, now stand still. Don’t try to adjust your posture. I’ll apply the stencil on.”

Still on her knees, Bernie gets closer to her body to have better access to the thigh in order to place the stencil correctly. Serena loves the angle of her aquiline nose from here. She has a clear view of the top of Bernie’s head, for once, and she is amused to see some silver hair mixed with the blonde. Serena holds herself back with all her might from leaning over and smelling the scent of Bernie’s hair.

Bernie's fingers delicately manipulate the edges of the stencil.

« Don’t look down, » Bernie warns, a giggle in her voice, without even looking up at Serena. “It changes how naturally you stand.”

"I'm sorry," Serena says with a grin, glancing up. In the mirror, she watches the scene unfold—a woman she would trust with her life kneeling on the cold floor before her bare thigh. Despite the peculiarity of the moment—two women in their fifties brought together in a tattooing studio—Serena wouldn’t trade this for anything. Oh, what would her colleagues say if they saw her like this? Perhaps she should take a picture, a keepsake of this rare instant.

Bernie makes sure the stencil is positioned correctly before placing it firmly on Serena’s skin, in order to transfer the washable ink correctly across the length and width of her thigh. The paper is oddly cold and damp, and it tickles when Bernie gently removes it.

“Do you like it?” Bernie stays kneeling, but she angles her body to the side so Serena can look at herself in the mirror. On her thigh, the extraordinary tribute to her daughter is temporarily drawn. The heart seems three-dimensional.

"Yes," Serena answers, breathless in front of the unrealistic situation, delighted. Except that with this rather crude purple ink, Serena can't see the details on the newspaper behind the heart.

« Don’t worry about the details on the stencils. They will only guide me for the shape. I’ll always have the actual drawing available on my tablet as a reference on my worktable,” explains Bernie, also satisfied about the stencil placement.

Serena steps around Bernie and moves closer to the mirror to get a better view of her thigh.

« It’s perfect, » Serena looks at the friend through the mirror. Bernie is still kneeling and she looks at Serena with an equally satisfied look.

“I’m glad. Now, don’t touch it nor rub it on any surface,” Bernie warns as she removes her gloves, before struggling to get up. “Ugh, I always forget how much my back hurts in this position.” Serena comes to Bernie’s rescue by offering her a hand to support herself.

« Should we really be doing these things at our age?” Serena’s rhetorical question makes them laugh as she helps her friend to get on her feet. Once more, they are face to face, very closely, and remain in a contented silence, until Bernie has to follow-up by asking more questions.

“Alright, now, do you have water?” Bernie asks, brushing away her bangs with her hand.

“Yes, in my bag,” Serena indicates.

“Snacks? If you don’t, I have a drawer full of sweets and protein bars.”

“I’m good,” Serena reassures.

“Do you need anything before we start? I suggest to keep your phone close to you, you might need a lot of distractions,” Bernie points to the chair.

“Great idea,” and Serena does, pulling it out of her bag with its earphones and sets it close to the bib covered head pillow. When it’s done, Serena actually freezes, unsure what to do next.

“How do you feel?” Bernie checks on Serena, concerned.

“Totally out of my comfort zone. Usually, I’m the one guiding my patients on their hospital stretcher,” her voice sounds more nervous than expected. This turn of events puts Serena in a vulnerable position and absentmindedly she starts rolling her necklace between two fingers.

“You’re doing well, believe me,” Bernie encourages.  

“Well, I do have excellent guidance,” Serena praises, raising an eyebrow suggestively.  

And Serena sees something in Bernie’s eyes. A spark of a greater sentiment, before she brushes it off by staying focus on task. Bernie clears her throat.

“Do you wish to look at the stencil once more?” quickly suggests the artist, turning towards the mirror.

“Nope, all good!” Serena even holds out her hands in defense.

“Well, shall we get set? » Bernie invites Serena to lie down on her back onto the massage table.

Apparently, it takes all of the surgeon’s effort to waddle into position, trying not to brush off the stencil.  

“Want me to get you a bench?” mocks Bernie with her deep voice, entertained. 

“Stop it! God, why is this so difficult? Thankfully, no one can see me,” Serena feels like an upside-down turtle as she is half-way onto the table, misaligned.

“I can, and I admit it is pretty funny,” Bernie laughs heartily. “But don’t worry, I’m worse when I hop on these tables, with all skinny bones and injuries.”

Finally, Serena stops fidgeting and has found a decent position, adjusting the plastic covered pillow. She is lying down on her back, her feet being just at the edge of the massage table. It is decent enough.

“Cozy?” Bernie asks, before turning on the bright over-head lamp and the brightness goes straight into Serena’s eyes and she flinches.

“Well, I do feel as if I were under the spotlight of a surgery. Who knew these bloody lights were so blinding?” Serena grimaces and Bernie laughs, obligately apologizing. Her honking laugh is back, again!

Bernie angles the light so it is no longer a nuisance for her friend.

Serena is readjusting her sight and, suddenly, an orthopedic pillow is gently slipped underneath the bib under the back of her knees and it makes Serena’s legs stretch out more restfully and it angles her coccyx more at ease.

“Oh, now that’s divine! I could get used to this,” Serena is contented. She grabs her cellphone and places an earphone into one ear only, because she wants to be able to hear Bernie at all times. While she prepares her playlist, she can hear Bernie move around the worktable.

“Think of me as a surgeon. When my gloves are on, I can’t touch anything else than your skin and the prearranged equipment you currently see. But don’t let that stop you from asking me if you need me to fetch something for you,” Bernie explains.

“Noted. Can we get started before I change my mind?” urges Serena, good-humouredly.

Silence.

Worried by the absence of any kind of reply, Serena curves her neck, looking up to search for Bernie.

Bernie stares at her with huge, alarming eyes, immobilized, clearly questioning if they, indeed, have to stop. 

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding. I’m not changing my mind,” Serena says, holding her hands up.

“As long as you’re sure,” Bernie replies, before returning to her drawers. She surprises Serena by fixing a headlamp on her forehead and it makes her look like a miner or a mechanic. The elastic band holding the headlamp gets all tangled up in her ponytail and bangs. Plus, it comes with a headband magnifying glasses, set directly in front of her eyes.

Bernie looks professional but also utterly adorable, with her huge eyes looking straight back at her through the close-up leans.

“I am sure,” Serena says, driven and anxious to start. She also urgently needs to look away, or else she’ll start making fun of Bernie, unashamed.

“Great. I will spare you the needle and technical details,” Bernie starts putting her gloves on. “But just so you know, I like working in sections. I start from bottom to top. In other words, I focus on the skin closer to me, so my gloves won’t rub off the washable stencils as I work my way on up your thigh.”

“Sounds good,” Serena is staring at the ceiling, no longer looking at Bernie. She is readjusting her position on the pillow. God, that ceiling is boring compared to the heterogeneous reception area. Maybe she should suggest decorating the ceiling in the foreseeable future. She will be staring at it for a long period.

Bernie is bustling around the tattoo machine. She rips sterile bags, assembles and disassembles pieces together, turns the machine on and off in order to test a few details. The buzzing sound is louder than Serena thought. And to think Bernie promised she would feel more at ease, yet her senses are confronted to overwhelming information each minute.   

Having previously done some research with the help of a certain nephew, Serena knows the hand-held device works with electromagnetic coils to move an armature bar up and down, and that somehow, various needles – rounds, flats, magnums, angles, shaders - will be dipped in ink and then pushed into her skin. Oh, she hopes the pain will be tolerable.

“Now, at any time, if you’d like me to stop, just say it. Don’t move or fidget while my needles are in, and if you need to sneeze or stretch, give me a sign. We can take many breaks. Please know we can interrupt and continue on another session. Ready?”

“Ready, » Serena breathes out and presses play on the playlist of her cellphone.

« Here it goes. » The machine starts buzzing loudly, continuous waves and Serena can feel a strange pinch, a mixture of hot and cold. And it stops, and Bernie wipes. And it starts again. The discomfort is currently not so mortifying.

Serena hadn’t anticipated that her body would serve as support for Bernie—but of course, it makes sense. Bernie needs stability to precisely reach the right section of skin. Her elongated torso stretches along Serena’s lower leg, and in an oddly intimate way, the warmth of her armpit rests lightly against Serena’s right knee. With one hand, she holds the skin taut, while the other guides the tattoo machine with steady precision.

Space and time blur when countless needles pierce the skin, especially when one can’t see the process unfold. A rhythm emerges: a mix of burning heat and sharp cold, the constant vibration, the steady hum—then silence. Bernie wipes the ink away, and it all begins again. And again. And again. Thankfully, she doesn’t trace long, endless lines, giving Serena a brief moment to catch her breath between each tiny, relentless puncture.

“How is it so far?” Bernie asks through the buzzing sound and the noise of plastic covers being brushed.

“Not as bad as I thought. It feels like the beginning of a sunburn.” But instead of beaches, shellfish and mermaids, it is blood and metal and a warrior in a funny uniform.

Serena tilts her head slightly, subtly trying to steal a glance at Bernie without moving. She’s captivated by the way Bernie moves—completely in control of her environment. Every motion is deliberate, every adjustment precise. She has set the height of her rolling stool just right, allowing her feet to rest flat on the ground without forcing her knees into an awkward posture. To maintain balance, she shifts her weight fluidly, sometimes pressing into her heel, sometimes bending the arch of her foot, all while keeping her arms steady. She molds herself effortlessly to Serena’s curves, finding the perfect positioning to support the weight of her upper body.

Yet, Bernie seems to have developed a habit of arching her back too much, as if carrying the weight of the universe on her shoulders. Perhaps flexibility is an unspoken prerequisite for being a tattoo artist—a subtle transformation into a contortionist.

Meanwhile, Serena is growing accustomed to the pain, the steady buzzing, and the rhythmic vibration, making it easier to focus on her playlist. She shifts her head on the pillow and lets her gaze wander over the ceiling, searching for patterns in its surface. Slowly, she surrenders to the strange blend of pain and tranquility. Drowsy, she drifts between the melody in her ears and the hypnotic hum of the machine.

…Woken up by something – a sharp pain, a dull noise? – Serena realizes that she has been out of time for several minutes. How long exactly?

“Is it common for a person to fall asleep?” she asks, confused, her voice as hoarse as someone who has just woken up

“Actually, it isn’t quite sleeping. More like dozing off. Your consciousness is trying to escape. What else is there to do when your body is in pain and you voluntarily can’t move?” Bernie explains, focused, while starting back and forth between the tablet showing the details of her drawing and Serena’s thigh.

Sometimes, when the machine’s buzzing stops and Bernie adjusts a setting, the sensation shifts entirely when the needle touches Serena’s skin again. She’s beginning to realize that outlining and shading create two completely different kinds of pain—sometimes a sharp pinch, sometimes a slow burn, sometimes a tearing sensation, sometimes a deep, involuntary contraction. All of this, she deduces blindly, unable to see a thing.

With her mind struggling to rationalize the experience and her body pleading for relief, Serena tries to make conversation, hoping the distraction might help regulate her response. Seizing the moment, she asks Bernie about her own tattoos. After all, if Bernie has endured the countless needles that have traced over her skin, surely Serena can survive this too.

« Had a tattoo done recently?” she asks between two gnashing of teeth.

« Oh no. I’m fussier now about who puts their hands on me, compared to when I was younger,” Bernie comments between a few needles change. And there goes the buzzing and pain, again.

Serena is thankful Bernie keeps talking or else her mind would trick her into spasming.   

“I’m tough,” confides Bernie, without shame. “I’m bloody tough, but I have to admit it does get harder the older you get,” Bernie goes on. “It’s either the body that tires easily in general, or it’s the body no longer tolerating the procedure.”

“The body senses the return of the needle and says ‘no more, thank you’,” Serena guesses, an arm crooked over her forehead. She can not comprehend people who voluntarily submit to this repeatedly.

“But I can guarantee a first session at 50 years old hurts less than a 20^th session at 40-year-old,” Bernie adds when Serena grunts out of pain. “Sensitive spot here, I’m sorry,” she is apologetic but does not stop the needle spell. 

Positioned like this, Serena has no idea what spot Bernie is referring to. She is pretty sure she has transformed into a Picasso painting: her belly button might as well be on her cheek and her big toes on each side of her hips. The only thing she is sure of: sharp pain emanating from her left lower limb.

“You mean to say you’ve been through this, more than 20 times?” Serena comments, astonished and hurting, under the pressure of the tracing of a specific line drawn on a very sensitive spot, indeed.

“Much more, actually. You can double that. Some drawings require multiple sessions. For sure, I haven’t done my stomach in one setting!”

“Dear god!” As counterproductive it may sound, it actually helps Serena to listen to Bernie exchange about her experiences, as it does distract from her own pain.

“What spots are the most painful in general?” Serena prompts Bernie to continue talking. She opens one eye and angles her head, trying to see if she can spot Bernie from this position.

“Depends on the person,” Bernie explains, while wiping away Serena’s thigh with a paper towel. She turns around and dips the needle into one of the little individual cups. “The sensitive spots are already tender in general, like the armpits, the groins, the inside of the knee and the elbow,” she adds while putting all of her upper body’s weight back onto Serena’s lower leg. “Oh, and the rib-cage! Gosh,” Bernie lifts her head up, looks into nothing. “The pain from tattooing my rib-cage was worst than the explosion I suffered in the army.”

“You can’t be serious?” Serena can’t help but stare at Bernie, who grins without looking away from the thigh.  

“Well, I had the indulgence of being unconscious after the blowout,” Bernie replies, still focusing on the skin and ink.

“Don’t joke about this,” Serena advises through her teeth, setting her head back comfortably on the pillow.

“Don’t you wish you’d be unconscious right now?” Bernie insinuates, knowing very well about the pain Serena has to go through.

All things considered; Serena realizes the morose idea is actually an interesting one. “Well, after a couple of hours of this, perhaps.” Is it sweat she feels on the back of her neck?

“By the way, you’re doing great. It’s been close to 45 minutes already,” Bernie congratulates though the buzzing noise.

“Does it mean we’re almost done?” Serena hopes, unsure.

“Um, well, not really. I’d say we’ve covered 35% of the stencil,” Bernie quickly regrets the mention of time progression and urges to start a new line.

“Bloody hell,” Serena sighs loudly, hiding her forehead in the crook of her lifted arm, once more.

« What would make you feel better?” wonders Bernie, probably referring to a break, a snack or water, but Serena can’t help herself, she uncovers her face and stares down at Bernie.

Bernie senses Serena looking, and lifts up her head to meet her gaze through her magnifying lenses. Her chocolate-brown eyes are enormous and adorable.

Serena smirks with wiggling eyebrows, her eyes tired but twinkling.

“Hey, I’m serious. No time to joke around if you wish to get this over with soon enough,” warns Bernie emphatically, before resuming her task.

“Fine, suit yourself,” Serena admits defeats and returns to her position, hiding in the crook of her arm. “You do know how to show a girl a good time, though” she adds mockingly. The buzzing increases.

“Want to know more about my other tattoos?”

“I’d love to,” Serena adds, but it comes out as a groan because Bernie is undeniably working in a sore location. Hasn’t she already been working in this area of skin before? “Why are you back on that spot? It’s so bloody painful!”

“I’m so, so sorry. I’ve done contouring the heart, valves, artery and ventricles. I’m back to add some shading and texture,” Bernie clarifies.

“God! Well, do what you have to do. Work your magic,” Serena settles, breathing in and out. “This pain is temporary, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it needs to stay tolerable. We can take a break.”

“Nope, because nothing guarantees I’d get back to it, if we stop,” Serena laughs of despair, hiding again under her lifted arm.

Sensing Serena’s weakness, Bernie gets back to their initial conversation. “So, about my tattoos, you've seen a lot of them already. But did I mention my legs?”

« No, » Serena groans again, in pain but truly curious.

“Well, I had an obsession with Wonder Woman,” Bernie starts. She does have a few paintings of her on the walls of her cubicle. 

“I can imagine, she was an Amazon warrior surrounded by women soldiers,” remarks Serena, her voice breaking from the pain. “Talk about as positive a role-model in a non-traditional field.”

“Yes, she was such a strong, independent woman, who handled weapons. Not to mention a lasso of truth! She was fighting for peace, justice and liberty,” Bernie stops the machine, turns around, unwraps something that Serena can’t see, and turns back to massage table, adjusting her hand-piece. “She has been my muse for as long as I can remember.”

Perhaps Wonder Woman was one of the deciding factors in Bernie joining the army to begin with, as well as family tradition, but Serena lets Bernie lead the conversation. It would make sense.

“My whole left leg is a realistic cartoon drawing of her in action, from her golden crown to the tip of her red boots, holding her indestructible gilded shield and protective bracelets,” Bernie says.

“Oh, so you do have colors on you!” Serena comments, fooled.

Bernie blushes. “Yes, I do, but the drawing is so old, the colors pigments are no longer clearly defined. I do cherish it, even though it’s one of my oldest, and the only one in color,” Bernie explains. “I don’t really recommend tattoo with various colors as they don’t always age well. Especially if, like me, you’ve been exposed to the sun in the context of work.”

“I see,” Serena needs to cough, out of the blue, her mouth dry. “Ugh, stop, I need water, please.”

Immediately, Bernie halts, turns off her hand-piece and removes herself from Serena, giving her space. The brunette leans up on her elbows and coughs in the crook of her arm, trying to swallow saliva that isn’t there.

Bernie puts her gear on the counter, and still sitting on her rolling chair, she rolls away with a few pushes of her feet, takes off her gloves and leans over to rummage through her customer's bag, beneath the protein bars. She finds the bottle of water, removes the cap and quickly hands the bottle over to Serena.

“That was speedy,” Serena says before gulping its content. It’s so refreshing, it almost gives Serena an extra life. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t lost my army reflexes,” Bernie says proudly, looking sympathetically at Serena. 

After finishing all the water from the bottle, Serena looks up to her friend and starts laughing uncontrollably. It leaves Bernie puzzled, but amused. She’s laughing with her, unaware of the trigger element.

“You look so adorable with your head equipment,” Serena comments, hiding behind her empty bottle, trying to contain her laughter.

“Hey, let a woman do her job the way she pleases. Don’t you forget I’m the one holding the needles?” Bernie teases as vengeance, as she takes away Serena’s empty bottle from her hands.

Even if she begged not to interrupt the session, Serena does appreciate this break.

“Want more?” Bernie proposes, referring to the water. Serena shakes her head no.

“Unless you have something else to offer?” Serena asks, her seductive voice clearly insinuating something of other nature.

After putting the empty bottle away, the artist puts on new pair of gloves, smiling at the corner of her mouth. “Now, you behave. You promised.”

“You’re right, I did,” Serena admits, lying back down in her initial position, adjusting the pillow once more. She is surprised to find the bib damp from the perspiration from the back of her neck.

“I’d say we have a little bit more than hour left,” Bernie points out, staring at the clock and judging from the tattoo progression.

Serena tries not to look dejected. « Let’s move on, then. »

And the buzzing, the vibration, the sharpness, the burning, the warmth of Bernie’s upper body weight, the wiping… resume all over again.

“Tell me about your other leg,” requests Serena, seeking a distraction.

It feels like Bernie is holding back on revealing more information. After a certain moment, Bernie does answer.

“If you must know. I have a few pin-up girls,” Bernie confesses. She tries to justify herself. “Army obliges,” she explains.

“Nah, don’t find excuses, you big macho army artist,” Serena teases.

“To tell you the truth, the first one was a rite of passage. Afterwards, I admit enjoying their company,” Bernie continues. “They are all that I am not. Curvaceous, expressive, womanly, appealing,” Bernie goes on.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that,” Serena worries. “You can be these adjectives, if you wish. Maybe someone can see them in you.”

“Except curvaceous. I’m skinny as a beanpole,” Bernie comments, coolly. She is changing her position and angles more of her body in a way that Serena can see more of her face. “And it’s okay. These pin-up girls can fulfil that part for me.”

“That’s the beauty and the complexity of being a woman. We are all different and have diverse standards of acceptability towards ourselves,” Serena pauses to flinch. “We are all beautiful in our own way and I applaud our dissimilarities,” she grimaces yet again as Bernie hits another sore spot. “How boring it would be if we were all identical,” Serena adds quickly under her breath. She exhales slowly, pushes the pain far from her mind.

Bernie fills the silence. “I find it emancipating to admire women”, Bernie adds. “I am fortunate to be able to participate in a moderate – or revolutionary- transformation of their bodies. As a statement, or a commemoration,” she says with a smile in her voice slightly hidden under the noise of the machine.

Serena feels lulled by a warm tranquility. In front of her - or rather partially leaning on her - is a respectful, empathic woman who shares her appreciation of diversity and open-mindedness. Her soul is comfortable, purely at ease, despite her body in great pain.

“There is something truly inspiring about appreciating women in a way that honors their individuality and strength,” Serena comments tranquilly, roaming between the space of soul and body.

Through her drowsiness, Serena doesn't remember when they have stopped talking.

And then, slyly and without warning, a wave of stupor overtakes her, offering a brief escape from the tension and soreness. Drifting into a dreamlike state, Serena finds herself in a strange yet wondrous place—somewhere between slumber and rapture. It’s no surprise that Elinor is there, so young, so full of hope. In Serena’s vision, her daughter stands before her with a gaping chest, her heart replaced by a luminous burst of stirring purity. With open arms, Elinor reaches for her, whispering that everything will be alright. Nor is it surprising that Bernie appears too—radiant and powerful, dressed in the red, gold, and blue uniform of Wonder Woman. She extends a hand, vowing to shield Serena from all misfortunes. Then, like the winding of a velvet ribbon, the Lasso of Truth swiftly encircles them, binding their bodies in an irresistible embrace. Under its enchanted hold, they surrender to the depths of their emotions, their affection laid bare. Drawn together by the undeniable pull of love, their lips inch closer, ready to meet in a unifying kiss…

« Auntie Serena? » Jason’s request brings Serena out of her daydream. His head is peeking above the parting screen.

“What can we do for you, Jason?” Bernie probes, unbothered.

“Can I get one of the proteins bars from her bag?”

Serena frowns from pain and fatigue, keeping her eyes firmly closed. Bernie takes the liberty of answering in place of Serena, in order to let her rest.

“Ask Charlotte to hand you a £20 note out of the cash register. There is a drugstore across the street that sells similar proteins bars,” Bernie suggests before getting back to work. The resuming of the buzzing noise respectfully indicates the end of their conversation.

“Oh, is this blood?” Jason wonders, pointing from afar towards Serena’s thigh. Bernie interrupts the buzzing, looks up again, amused.

“That will be all, Jason. Let your auntie rest for the half-hour remaining, okay?” Bernie requests, cheery. “We’ll meet you soon at the reception,” and she gets back to work.

Through the buzzing noise and the weight of weariness, Serena can’t tell if Jason has left.

“Why did he mention blood?” Serena grunts weakly, worried, not moving nor looking down. Blood does not bother her. From time to time, for whole days, her hands work directly in blood, between organs. But her own blood here, now, makes her worry.

“When the skin is so sore, little blood drops of perspiration mix up at the surface with the ink, it’s normal. I dab it away with my paper towel.”

As if a bolt of lightning has pierced the surface of her skin, or as if she’s been branded with a hot iron, Serena’s entire thigh feels like it’s on fire.

The pain is so constant that she hardly notices when the needle pierces her skin anymore. Everything has blurred into a mix of noise, heat, inflammation, and discomfort, where time either stretches endlessly or comes to a halt. Yet, she finds herself savoring the brief moments when Bernie pours a bit of cool liquid before wiping it away with a paper towel—it soothes her aching skin.

« It’s looking amazing, Serena. You can be proud! I’ve just finished the necklace,” Bernie puts down the device, unwraps something, unclips and clips. But Serena can only guess, because Bernie’s body hides the view. Which is actually good, all things considered.

“I’m about to start the last section. It’s the contours and shadows of the upper part of the newspaper and the scribbles of electrocardiogram,” Bernie clarifies.

“Hurray,” Serena no longer has the energy to feign amusement. 

Bernie takes pity.

“What if I tell you I’ve made sure coffees would be delivered in,” Bernie looks up at the clock, “approximately 30 minutes?”

That prospect brings Serena back to life. Literally, her eyes flash open. A ray of optimism crosses her brain, electricity wiring different parts of it, sending energy through her veins. Perseverance will become her close ally. Suddenly, the ceiling is becoming more captivating; her playlist is a masterpiece; the burning sensation is a mere soreness; the vibration actually soothes the pain. Nothing matters anymore, because coffee is coming. Serena is positively sure the power of her mind can already recreate the aroma of caffeine.

“You are my lifesaver. Literally.” Serena has gained some colors back, along with hope, as if she could endure any kind of pain that came her way.

“As well as your tormentor, I’m afraid,” Bernie sorrows, still focused on task.

“Maybe, but you bought me coffee! All is forgotten,” Serena’s effortless enthusiasm is back, coloring her cheeks and a reviving animation is taking part of her body. She starts fondling with her necklace again, staring at the ceiling.

Except that the pain is still present, but Serena fights through it. Holding out her phone, she increases the sound of her playlist, takes deep breaths. She can locate the exact placement of the needle piercing the skin at the top of her thigh, close to her inner thigh. The buzzing seems louder than usual, more affirmative of its presence. It lasts for a while, just enough time for a couple of songs to go on shuffle. Eyes closed, she tries to focus on Bernie’s lips; Wonder Woman; hearts; her own bed; a back massage; a day without emergencies at the hospital; coffee; and friendships.

Eventually, Bernie wipes away the area a little more firmly than usual. And then, nothing more. Everything has stopped. The pressure, the piercing of needle, Bernie’s weight, the buzzing, the vibration.

« It’s done, » Bernie celebrates proudly, out of breath herself. Removing her gloves, she frees herself from her headlamp and sets it on another counter close-by, pleased and exhausted.

It’s all over, forever. Serena wants to cry out of liberation. She moans her relief.

“The tattoo has to breathe for a while, try not to move too much for the next minutes. Consider it an open wound, while I clean up the worktable,” Bernie slaps both of her hands on her own thighs. “You’re free, Serena. You did it!”

Serena runs her hands over her face, as if to erase all the grimaces she has made, and massages her temples out of respite. “Dear god, I can’t believe it’s over! Can I sit up?” Serena wonders.

“As long as you don’t touch the tattoo, it’s fine. Don’t forget: consider it an open wound.”

Finally sitting up after a few hours, Serena feels lightheaded. The room seems disproportionate and the ambient noise tampered. Her muscles feel stiff from holding the position for so long. She feels heavy, a strange combination of exhaustion and adrenaline. 

Bernie starts tiding up. After putting on a different pair of gloves, vinyl instead of nitrile, she transfers all the liquids from the small containers into the larger plastic cup; she crumples the spotted bibs into her fists before throwing them into the garbage can; she makes sure all the ink bottles are screwed tightly; she dispenses the needles into the appropriate recipient. And so much more, if only Serena could be more aware of her surroundings. It seems like Serena is seeing everything, but not watching anything in particular.

“Time for a protein bar, huh?” Bernie guesses, before removing her gloves and taking one out of Serena’s bag on the floor.

“Oh, thank you dear,” Serena is on automatic mode, unwraps the packaging and starts chewing noisily, as if she’s only starting to have the strength of her jaw back.  

Bernie takes a few minutes to stare at Serena, whose hair is uncombed. She really looks exhausted. “I’m really proud of you,” she states while gently putting her hand on Serena’s untattooed thigh, trying to get her attention.

Serena smiles, drowsily, looking directly into Bernie’s kind eyes.

“All thanks to you,” Serena comments, and after staring into Bernie’s eyes, she slowly realizes something. “Oh, I’ve never asked how you’re doing?” she worries between two chews. “How is your back?” She adds her hand to Bernie’s resting on her thigh.

The tattooist seems visibly concerned about her friend's exhausted state. She looks at her with a protective gaze and she doesn't remove her hand, appreciating the softness of Serena's damp hand against hers.

Are they both dizzy with fatigue or are their faces slowly leaning closer?

“I’m fine, though I hate torturing people,” answers Bernie, contrite, as if she’s repentant to all the harm she had just inflicted on her friend's body. “I dread this part of my job,” she glares at Serena’s sore and inflamed thigh.

“Well, imagine how I feel when I bring out the surgical saw and close a chest with huge staples,” Serena insists, reassuring her friend. She squeezes Bernie’s hand resting on her untattooed thigh. It does make Bernie smile.

In attempt to get a better angle to view the final result, Serena tries to tilt her head. However, the tattooed area is indeed inflamed and dotted with small droplets of blood and excess ink.

“Let me wipe the droplets off your thigh.”

Putting on a new pair of gloves, Bernie uses a bottle with a spout to pour liquid on Serena’s thigh and quickly covers it with a paper towel, holding a gentle pressure with her gloved hand. The coldness from the damp paper and the subtle pressure of Bernie’s hand dabbing the area does offer relief. Serena moans.

“There, all clean. It should stay dry for a few minutes,” Bernie clarifies. “Now would best time to go to the mirror, for the big reveal, before I apply the Hypafix,” she advises while removing her stained gloves.  

Still in automatic mode, responding to instructions, Serena tries to get off the massage table too quickly, which is too risky as her legs are weak, and she is interrupted by Bernie who supports her, and they stumble in each other’s arms, uneasily.  

“Easy there, there is no rush. Your tattoo isn’t going anywhere,” Bernie laughs, her breath brushing Serena’s eyelids.

Serena is too exhausted to feel embarrassed, consequently she simply joins Bernie’s laugh and shakes her head to wake herself up. Both of her hands are currently resting on Bernie's shoulders, and she enjoys the warmth of her body. Serena will never tire of being appreciative of Bernie’s facial features. It would be so nice if she could rest her forehead against Bernie’s.

“Let’s walk together”, invites Bernie, taking Serena’s hands in hers.

Serena is escorted to the mirror, which is not that far away, but Bernie’s support is welcomed as her legs haven’t gotten used to walking, yet.

And in doing so, standing next to the incredibly gifted and caring artist, Serena sees her tattoo for the first time, admiring the incredible portrait etched on her skin, carrying the memory of Elinor.

The ancient newspaper impeccably sculpts the shape of her thigh and stretches perfectly to the width and length of her thigh. Its presence is clear and elusive enough to bring out the particulars of Elinor's oversized and textured heart, adorned with her necklace like a protective embrace. Serena is impressed by the realistic anatomical details. The necklace seems to shine and reflect the light.

By the bright colors of the room; by the ambient sounds; by the warmth of Bernie’s body; by the sharp pain pulsating on her thigh’s skin; by her own heart beating to the rhythm of adrenaline; by the pride of accomplishment; Serena is reminded that she is alive, truly alive. The brunette feels like she is rediscovering herself, completely stripped of judgment, without filters.

Her soul is at peace, floating in the atmosphere, as heavenly as her daughter, ethereal and pure.

“Do you like it?”

Despite the uneasiness of her current state, looking at the finished design does bring a rush of excitement and wonderment, making all the pain feel worth it. Serena will become familiar with the fact that every day, for the rest of her life, this heart will be present with her

“It’s perfect, » Serena can’t say more. Words cannot express her gratitude. Through the mirror, Serena seeks Bernie's gaze and she hopes with all her heart that the gratefulness she feels can be communicated through that gaze. It seems so, since Bernie offers one of her most expressive smiles, modest and gracious.

“Thank you,” Serena manages to say, her voice trembling.

Bernie bows. “Are you ready to wrap it?” Bernie places a hand on each of Serena’s shoulders. “Let’s go back to your chair.”

Too emotive to comment, Serena’s fingers start playing with her necklace. Serena slowly but happily turns around and walks over to the chair she was lying on. That's when she notices how the protective bib is crumpled, damp, torn in some places. Gray and black ink has spilled on a few spots and the pillow is almost falling off the massage table. Still, it’s less frightening than a surgery table after procedure. Immediately, Bernie removes the stained bib.

“Are you able to stand for a few more minutes, while I apply the Hypafix protection?”

Serena nods, staying still, standing next to her chair. The burning sensation is quite incapacitating. Again, she tries to occupy her mind with questions. Again, Bernie reaches for her glove box.

“Remind me again how Hypafix works?”

At this precise moment, Bernie is already kneeling in front of Serena, at the height of her pelvis, and she is wiping away the excess moistness, once more with a paper towel. Serena moans her surprise, and her relief, because it is actually soothing the soreness.

“This adhesive second-skin will stay on and trap excess liquids and protect against particles. I’d say keep the film on for a least 3 days, and remove when too much liquid will start to accumulate.”

Still on her knees, Bernie throws away her gloves and extends her arm towards her worktable to catch a small box and a pair of scissors.

“No gloves, this time?” asks Serena, curious, as she looks down.

“Exactly. I’m not touching the tattoo, and besides, I’ll be manipulating an adhesive film. It’s a nightmare to work when it sticks onto gloves,” Bernie explains. She starts cutting medium sized pieces.

« Aren’t you taking a picture for your portfolio?” Serena wonders, admiring how Bernie manipulates the scissors.

Bernie pauses, looks up so that her gaze can meet Serena's, and, in profound reflection, she respectfully says she won’t.

“Let’s keep it between us, and your family,” Bernie declares. Serena's mourning does not need to be displayed publicly. “This is of a private matter.”

Serena nods, a lump caught in her throat. Why would she become emotional, all of a sudden?

“Besides, next time I’ll see you, I could always take a picture. If you’d want me to,” Bernie invites, while grabbing a piece of the cut adhesive.

“To take a picture or to see you?” Serena suggests, trying to transform the emotion caught in her throat into something else, something tempting, something evocative.

Bernie looks up again, her gazes matching the energy of Serena’s suggestive voice, but she doesn't say anything.  They are languidly staring at each other, before Bernie looks back down and starts to press the plastic wrap against the tattoo. How nice it would feel to run fingers through Bernie’s tangled blonde hair.

Hypafix is really a figure-hugging plastic film, which sticks to the skin. Given the size of the tattoo, several pieces are needed in order to entirely protect the tattoo. Bernie uses the palm of her hands to gently rub up and down the surface to make sure it holds properly. She leans back, sitting on the heels of her feet, satisfied.

As soon as Bernie finishes, a notification chimes on her phone. She retries it from the back pocket of her skinny jeans.

“Coffee is on its way,” Bernie checks her screen and shows the delivery process to Serena.

Serena restrains herself from jumping with excitement. With a satisfied smile, Bernie slips the phone back into her pocket and extends a hand, seeking Serena’s help to stand. Serena, ever chivalrous, graciously takes her hand. Bernie invites Serena to sit back on the massage table and Bernie sits back on her rolling-stool.

“I must admit, if coffees couldn’t be delivered, we’d have to rely on my secret stash,” Bernie says before rolling on her chair towards a binder. She opens it and takes out a bottle of Shiraz with two glasses of wine.

It’s impossible to put the bottle back in the drawer because Serena reaches out like a child to a bottle of warm milk.

“Gimme,” Serena pleads, still perched on the edge of the chair. One hand steadies her balance while the other curls its fingers, beckoning the bottle toward her.

“What about the coffees?” wonders Bernie.

“They’re next. Come on now, don’t tease,” Serena sounds serious to the point of becoming comically terrifying.

Laughing, Bernie uncorks the bottle, and pours some of its wine-red contents into both cups. Just enough for a few sips. Then, she rolls back on her chair closer to Serena, offering her a glass.

Thirsty, Serena immediately empties the glass, gulping sip after sip.

“It’s water I should’ve given you,” Bernie comments, astonished, taking a small sip of her own glass.

Distant footsteps are heard and approach the cubicle. With excellent timing, Jason joins them, holding a cup holder of 4 coffees, but only 3 are left.

“Auntie Serena, look what has been delivered. Charlotte has hers already. One has your name on it, and Bernie’s, and mine. But I don’t drink coffee, only hot chocolate,” Jason sounds disappointed.

“And that’s exactly what’s inside your cup,” Bernie says happily. It makes Jason joyful.

Bernie gets up to welcome Jason and she removes the folding screen from the passage, opening the way for Jason to joint his aunt.

He sits down beside Serena, stares down at the plastic film, concerned. Black ink and red liquid have started to gather underneath.

“You don’t look so well,” Jason remarks, looking up to her aunt, worried. It amuses Serena. She must look pale.

“I didn't feel very well at a certain point, but I'm better now. I have recovered, knowing that the torture is finally over. And I’ve had a bonus,” she indicates her empty glass. Her smile is indeed tired, but contented.

Bernie offers to take the empty glass away from Serena’s hand and Jason hands her the cup of coffee that has her name on it.

“Oh, bless you!” and just like that, a delicious gulp of coffee warms her throat. The distinct smell tickles her nostrils.

What a delight—the rich aroma of caffeine! What a luxury—the comforting warmth cradled in her palms. And what joy—the presence of the people she holds dear.

“Cheers to Elinor,” Bernie announces, inviting everyone to reflect on her memory—the one without whom none of this would have been possible.

This reinforces Serena's certainty: Bernie is the most wonderful woman who has ever existed and she could collapse under the immensity of the love that fills her heart.

The three raise their glasses solemnly and take a sip.

“To Bernie,” Serena begins a toast of her own, “you have transformed my grief into something profound and meaningful—a tribute to both life and loss. With every stroke of needle from your gentle hand, you have etched love into my skin, turning pain into something beautiful and everlasting.”

Serena’s voice breaks as she speaks, emotion tightening her throat. Overwhelmed by both joy and remembrance, she swallows hard, her words faltering under the weight of the tribute.

Greatly moved by such a form of appreciation, Bernie rolls forward near Serena and takes her hand, insisting on caressing her friend's knuckles with her fingers. They smile in silence, speaking an inaudible language.

The atmosphere is not tense, on the contrary. Everything is serene and tender, as it should be when surrounded by loved ones.

“You know what's nice about thighs, is that you have two of them. You can always do a symmetrical tattoo on the other side,” Jason points out, looking back and forth between Bernie and his aunt.

“You’re totally right, Jason,” Bernie acknowledges, without looking away from Serena's loving eyes.

Surprisingly, despite the torture of the needles and despite her sore and bleeding thigh, Serena acquiesces.

“Love makes fools of us all. Makes us do crazy things, things we scarce imagine.”  

And this is happiness—an intoxicating blend of Shiraz and coffee, chocolate eyes and coconut perfume, ink and blood, the sharp sting of disinfectant, the warmth of promises, and the exhilaration of new beginnings.