Page 81 of Glitterland
I stooped to base manipulation. “Look, if you don’t, I’ll find an unsanitary incompetent.”
She stared at me through narrowed eyes. “Okay. Come on through.”
I followed her into the second room. In contrast to the first, I felt like I’d turned up unexpectedly at the dentist. Everything was very neat and precisely laid out. In one corner there was a sink area and an autoclave, in the other a bench laid with inks and equipment. I took the big padded chair in the middle. It reminded me weirdly of getting ECT.
“What’s your name?” I heard myself ask.
“I go by Alice.”
I suppose I should have guessed.
When she was done at the sink, she came and sat down next to me. “Not your arse then?” She lifted her brows wickedly.
“Forearm will do, thank you very much.”
I peeled off my jacket, rolled up my sleeve, and turned my hand palm up.
“Want me to cover this up for you?” She tapped my scar.
In case of emergency, break skin?
“So I can look like someone who not only failed to kill himself, but then tried to hide failing to kill himself under a tattoo?”
“It could have been a really hardcore cat for all I care.” She shrugged, her fingers assessing my skin for the inadequate canvas it was.
“Well, it wasn’t.”
We talked a little about colour, positioning, and size, and then she said, “You still haven’t told me the name.”
“Oh, right. It’s…” Why was it so difficult to say aloud? “Darian.”
“And how are you spelling that? Don’t want a ‘beautifultradgedy’ going on.”
“With two a’s. D-A-R-I-A-N.”
“What’s he like?” she asked.
“He made me happy.”
“Wow, I feel like I know the guy. I can tell you’re a writer. It was like seeing a word picture materialise before my very eyes.” There was a pause. “Do you maybe want to try that again?”
It took me a long time, but, on this occasion, she didn’t press me.
“He…he…he’s a kind, ridiculous, beautiful glitter pirate. I don’t know what else I can tell you. He makes me laugh. He makes me hopeful.”
It was only after I’d spoken that I realised: present tense.
“I can work with that. I’ll freehand for a bit, and if you like it, we’ll go from there.”
“All right.”
She picked up a pen, put it to my arm, and a ribbon of ink unfurled across my skin.
“By the way,” she said, “you didn’t ask the question.”
“What question?”
“The question everyone asks. Will it hurt.”
