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The tattoo artist’s voice is calming. Soothing even. “Hey, don’t be nervous,” she says. She’s off to the side, setting up a vinyl record. Soft, smooth jazz fills up the space. “It only hurts at first. When you get used to it, it can actually be kind of addicting.”
Amelia Watson laughs nervously in her seat. The tattoo parlor itself is small but clean and well decorated. Along walls are framed images of stencils, of pictures of beautiful and complex tattoos. Ame is the last client of the day, and the rest of the stations are empty. Right next to her, on a table with wheels, she sees a tattoo gun, unopened needle cartridges, and a handful of ink bottles. A bright lamp with white light shines overhead, a stencil taped up on it.
Ame’s heart is pounding. She imagines the stencil as a tattoo on her forearm. Her skin tingles.
“Addicting, huh?” goes Amelia, “Are you speaking from experience or…?”
The artist takes a seat in a stool next to Ame. She pulls on a pair of black nitrile gloves with a deftness that suggests she’s done that motion many, many times. She’s wearing a baggy black shirt and a pair of baggy black joggers. Her long, purple hair is tied up into a neat ponytail. There are plenty of piercings on her ears. As the artist moves, Ame catches the barest glance of tattoos peeking out from under the woman’s sleeves. “We’re about to find out in a few hours,” says the artist. She grins, playfully, in such a way that her eyes almost seem to squeeze shut. Ame’s heart pounds a little faster. The artist takes the cartridges on the table and shows them to Ame. “I’ll be using these,” says the artist.
Ame looks at the items. They sure do look unopened. The reality of what’s about to happen really dawns on her. She’s about to alter her skin in a way that cannot be undone. Amelia Watson nods. The artist nods back.
“Thanks for making time for me in your busy schedule, Miss Ninomae,” says Ame, as she watches the artist prepare the stencil.
“Please,” she says, “no formalities. Call me Ina.”
“Okay. Thanks, Ina.”
“You’re welcome,” says Ina. “Your arm, please?”
Ame holds out her arm. Ina quickly runs a razor along the skin, shaving off fine hairs and then rubbing her arm down with alcohol. Her face is one of pure focus as she carefully takes the stencil, lines it up, and then presses it down against the skin. She peels it away gently. “Nice,” she says under her breath as she examines how well the stencil transferred.
“Besides,” goes Ina, suddenly, “Gura talks about you a lot. I kind of wanted to meet you, actually.”
Ame’s eyes dart to the front desk, where Gura is already fast asleep. She wants to strangle the shorter girl.
“Don’t worry,” soothes Ina, as she gets to work pouring out ink in little plastic cups on the table. “Gura only ever says nice things about you.”
Amelia Watson’s heart is about to jump out of her mouth and run screaming across the street. “Uhh… am I living up to the expectation so far?”
“The design you want is interesting, for sure,” answers Ina.
Ame looks down at her arm. The stencil, in purple ink, on her skin. It’s a pistol shooting through a pocket watch, gears and glass shattering, all drawn with a fine line, geometric style. Amelia had approved the design after an exchange of emails with Ina.
The cartridge sets into the tattoo gun with a faint click. Ina tests the machine and it buzzes to life. “Are you ready?” she asks.
“Wouldn’t you like, be mad if I suddenly backed out?”
“Upsetting, yes, but it isn’t the first time it would happen.” After a pause, Ina adds, “Please tell me you’re not gonna back out now.”
Amelia Watson chuckles. “Naw, fuck me up.”
Ina giggles. Nods. She pulls her stool closer. Her hands on Ame’s skin feels way more electric than it should. The thundering of Ame’s heart is almost lethal, probably. Ina hovers over the stencil.
The hum of the machine rises above the singing of jazz in the studio.
She draws a line, the purr of the device drawing a line that’s sharp, burning almost, leaving behind clear, black ink. Ina wipes away at it with a tissue. “How is it?” she asks.
Ame can’t look away from how Ina tilts her head up to check up on her client. Ame swallows hard. “Good,” she manages.
Ina smiles. “Good,” she echoes, and looks down at the stencil on Amelia’s skin. Ina gets to work. Her lines are quick, concise, and they draw little lines for fire along Amelia Watson’s arm. Her skin tingles, and after a while the pain changes from pointed and distracting into an almost background sensation.
Time seems to float by. Line after line the clockwork comes to life on Amelia’s forearm. Ina works mostly in silence. She hums to the jazz floating through the studio. There’s a softness to the tattoo artist’s voice that seems almost a harsh contrast to the woman hunched over her arm right now. Ame didn’t think she’d sound sweet, or smile nicely, or even be into jazz. A part of Amelia Watson wonders what else she’s like. The daylight fades into nightlight past the studio’s windows.
“So, you’ve probably gotten this question like, a million times by now, but, uh, why be a tattoo artist?” Ame asks.
Ina hums. “I don’t think the answer really makes a lot of sense to people. Or they sometimes think it’s weird.”
“Try me.”
There’s a short pause. Ina changes the cartridge on her tattoo gun. “This one we’ll use for shading,” she explains. “It’ll feel different.”
The buzz of the machine against Amelia’s skin is almost searing, scratching her raw. Ame briefly shuts her eyes. Focuses on her breathing. Slowly. In. And out.
“Good girl,” says Ina, under her breath.
Ame’s eyes snap open. Her cheeks feel like they’re blazing. She looks at Ina in the corner of her eye and finds that, thankfully, the artist is absorbed in the task at hand.
“Anyway,” says Ina, still looking at a specific section of the tattoo, “I like being a tattoo artist because it’s kind of like… being a magic storyteller.”
“Magic storyteller?”
“The ink settles into your skin. Becomes part of you. Most of my clients like to imbue meaning in the ink. And in that way, it’s like I’m doing magic right now. I take a part of your soul and weave it into your skin, a tapestry showing the world a fragment of who you are.”
Amelia hums. “Poetic,” she says. The image on her arm is coming together.
“So,” goes Ina, “what’s the story here?”
“It’s weird,” answers Ame.
“Try me.”
Ame chuckles. Ina pauses, sets the gun aside. She’s looking Ame in the eye. There’s a bubbling in the pit of her stomach. It makes her toes curl with excitement.
“I get a lot of weird dreams,” says Ame. “I dream that I’m some kind of time travelling detective. And I jump through timelines like I’m swimming through an endless river. Past, present, future, they all meld together into this adrenaline-fueled adventure pockmarked with bullets and mythical creatures and shit.”
Ina nods along thoughtfully. Her lips curl into a smile that makes Amelia want to melt. “So why a gun shooting through the clock?”
Amelia Watson hesitates before she elaborates further. “That version of me, in my dreams, she’s… wild. Like a feral animal, almost.” Ame laughs to herself. Ina nods along. “I want… I want to take a fragment, even a tiny fragment of that person, and become it. Does that make sense?” says Ame.
“I think so, yeah.”
“I want to be so brave that not even time can chain me.”
“Poetic,” says Ina. She smiles, softly. There’s a sparkle in her eyes that makes Amelia Watson think of her dreams and the many times she’s met someone she swears looks so similar.
Ina jolts, as if remembering the task at hand, and gets back to work. “Sorry,” she goes, “got a bit distracted there. I’ll continue, alright?”
And Amelia Watson nods, trying her best to convince herself that the lingering way Ina looks at her is just a figment of her imagination.
“What’s the story behind your tattoos?” Ame manages to ask.
Ina laughs lowly. The sound makes the hairs on the back of Ame’s neck stand on end. Ame could see, barely, what looks like the curl of tentacles reaching down the artists arms.
“It’s a pretty big piece,” explains Ina. “And there’s a lot going on with it. I kind of relate to your story, actually. I get a lot of dreams too. It’s related to that.”
“Oh,” goes Ame. “What does it look like?”
Ina looks up at Ame. Winks. “I only show off my ink after the third date. If you’re lucky.”
Ame sputters, looks away. She feels an aching in her chest that makes her ribs want to crumple in on themselves. Ina laughs heartily. She looks down again. Shades a few more cogs on Amelia Watson’s arm.
“I’m teasing,” says Ina. She pauses. The machine goes silent. Jazz fills Ame’s ears. Ina’s eyes dart up again, very, very briefly. “Or am I?”
Ame takes a deep breath. Her lungs press against her ribs. “Sure, show me your tattoos and I’ll show you how good I am at videogames. It always gets me another date.”
Ina laughs again. The sound is so pleasant, mixing in with the smooth jazz. “If your date can’t appreciate your sick 360 no scopes then maybe you’re dating the wrong people.”
“Does this mean you’re the one?” Amelia teases, despite the way her heart is beating so hard it’s probably going to explode. “You gonna appreciate my mad gamer skills?”
Ina looks up again, eyebrow raised. There’s a smug little smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes, narrowed like a predator’s, almost. “I’m mad sick at Mario Kart, you know,” she says.
“Ina there aren’t even any 360 no scopes in Mario Kart.”
“Not with that attitude.”
And Ame laughs, caught completely off guard. Ina grins, immensely proud of herself. It makes something warm and sweet settle on Amelia Watson’s bones.
The rest of the tattoo goes by quickly enough. Before she knows it, Amelia’s already sitting through the aftercare spiel that Ina gives her, and Ame nods along. “This film makes the healing process go by a bit faster,” she says, as she wraps a clear bandage around Ame’s arm. Watson tries her hardest to convince herself that the artist’s touch isn’t lingering. Isn’t slow. Isn’t agonizingly good. Ina leaves as she puts things away, and Ame goes ahead to the front desk to pay up.
Gura yawns but she’s instantly more awake when she looks at the tattoo that Ina had wrapped in the special film. “Looks sick, dude,” Gura says, as she stuffs the money away in a cash box.
Ame nods absently, trying to subtly look at where Ina is, at the back of the tattoo studio. “Mhm, thanks dude.”
Gura gives Ame the smuggest smile. “You ain’t slick dude,” she drawls. “And don’t think you aren’t the first to give her big ol’ puppy dog eyes. I think every client she’s ever had pretty much trips over their feet over her.”
Ame gasps, tries to form a rebuttal, and inhales at the same time. She sputters embarrassingly instead. “Wh-what, no, I mean, what,” she manages, after catching her breath somewhat. Very hushed she adds, “Is she uh, seeing anyone though?”
“Gayass,” Gura taunts. “Why don’t you ask her? She’s probably just cleaning up.”
Amelia considers this for a second. Sure, she walks up to Ina. Then what? Directly ask her on a date? Using words? Coming out of her mouth? Yeah, sure. She’s probably going to just stand there and then immediately pass out from the pressure like the gayass she knows she is.
“Never mind,” says Ame. “I’ll just. Yeah.”
“Pfft,” goes Gura. “This is why you’re hopelessly single.”
“And you’re not?” quips Ame.
“Hey, if I wanted to ask someone out on a date I can manage it. Unlike you, stink breath.”
Amelia Watson instinctively checks if she has bad breath.
“I thought the whole point of the tattoo is to be a little… what did you say?” goes Gura.
“Braver,” supplies Ame.
“Yeah. Braver. Now why don’t you muster up some of that courage and be the first one that wins a date.”
“You mean… you mean the other clients ask her out too?”
“And she’s turned down every single one.”
Ame groans. “Bro. And you think I’m somehow more special? No thanks. I’ll keep this memory sacred and perfect as it is.”
“Hey man,” says Gura, shrugging. “Just shoot your shot. You never know.”
From the back of the room, Ina shouts, “Oh, Ame, I forgot to give you something!”
Ame turns in time to receive a folded pamphlet. She recognizes it to be a flyer from the tattoo parlor. Amelia raises an eyebrow.
“I wrote a note with the aftercare instructions, it’s folded into the pamphlet. Be sure to go over it when you go home. If you forget or need any clarification, just reach out, okay?” says Ina.
Ame can barely say “Thanks,” when Ina is already rushing out through the door, out into the night, a small knapsack slung over her shoulder.
“Shucks,” goes Gura. “Don’t worry man, if you change your mind I’ll try to help you out.”
Amelia feels weak in the knees. “Ugh,” she groans. “She’s really hot dude.”
“Mhm. I know.”
Ame looks down at the folded pamphlet in her hand. “At least I’ll always have this to remember her by.”
“Ew. Gayass.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Amelia Watson unfolds the flyer. There, scrawled in rushed handwriting, a phone number and a note.
“For when you’re feeling brave enough to try to see what my ink looks like.”