Page 2 of Omega Artist
“You must be my 10:30. Welcome, I’m Tig.”
She extends her hand for me to shake, which I’m not used to, and the second our eyes actually meet, she averts my gaze to her feet again and her face turns beet red.
Embarrassment. Shyness. Infatuation… At least, that’s what Delia claims, and she’s probably right. My creative wife has her own take on this common occurrence that I still struggle with. Having clients check us out is apparently part of the job. Admiring the works of art that are our bodies is apparently part of the job. Being interested in our appearances is apparently part of the job. Anyway, I’m not bragging, but clients do check me out. A lot.
To be honest, most people would prefer picture-perfect Graham, with his expensive suits and CEO look, over me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware that I have the reckless bad boy vibe going on. The tats. The height. The attitude. And let’s not forget that I’m an artist. That’s where the true appeal lies, I think. Add to this that I’m far from repulsive… minus one tiny detail (and I’m not talking about my dick!).
“Do you have anything in mind?”
“Yes… no… I’m a virgin, you know.” It’s my turn to blush at her blunt revelation. Suddenly, we’re in a cartoon. She’s Little Red Riding Hood and we’re the wolves. What the hell was that?
“Fuck me!” My cousin’s jaw drops so low it almost hits the counter. It’s not an invitation, though she’s attractive, rather an expression of his utter shock.
“Shut up, Marco.” I slap his bulging bicep. He deserves it. Why else would he wear a short-sleeve tee-shirt the weekend before Thanksgiving, except to show off his ridiculously impressive muscles?
At once, her hands go flying in denial. “No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Somehow, I’m relieved, although I shouldn’t really care. She’s addressing me, holding my gaze this time. “I meant to say that I’m a virgin… tattoo-wise. I don’t have a single one.” She shrugs. “I’m here to rectify that.”
“Can I see some ID?”
“Wow, you’re a buzzkill, Mister Tig!”
“Mister Tig?” Marco exclaims. “If anyone in the family could portray Mister T, it would be me!” She offers him a small smile. “Hey, I’m Marco.” He clearly finds her to his liking. But he’s aware of the rule: no messing with the customers until their follow-up appointment.
To cut this conversation short—mostly the part that involves Marco—after checking her French passport, I grab a couple of folders filled with samples of my work that might give her some ideas and stroll towards the back. “Follow me.” I hear her footsteps keep pace without another word.
Once she’s sitting across from me, she browses through the designs and starts babbling between my explanation of the process and our exchange regarding her choice of design and location. She’s here for a family funeral. She’s part American on her mother’s side. She’s a Parisian who intends to study in the U.S.
“I’m sorry, I guess talking helps calm my nerves.”
“No problem.” I listen to her for a bit more, and we discuss her options. After showing her a few pictures, she settles on a small bird escaping from a cage, to be placed on the right side of her inner thigh.
O-kay.
First, I sketch it so that we agree on the style and proportions.
“Let’s do this.” Her voice sounds shaky. Her tone rings too excited. Her words seem forced. But as soon as they leave her mouth, her body relaxes, so I snap on my gloves and get down to business.
I can’t wait to see Delia tomorrow for our dinner date!
The entire time, she pours out her life story that I listen to absentmindedly, but I mostly concentrate on work.
I miss Delia like crazy right now!
Her oppressive father hates tattoos. This will be her dirty little secret…
Dirty is my plan after our dinner date!
This isn’t the first time that a client’s mistaken me for a shrink. I don’t mind the confession, but it’s not my job, so I nod, shrug, and mumble.
Damn, my life is so simple compared to yours, miss!
Once I’m done, she tugs on her designer jeans, hugs me and mutters a thank you into my ear, and flees the confined space. Her intimate gesture unsettles me.
“I’m a sucker for heavily tattooed men,” she whispers.
It’s not much of a leap, considering that several swirls escape from my collar, and who would do that if not tattooed elsewhere, right? Refusing to acknowledge her flirting, I peel my gloves off and go wash my hands in the corner of the small room, where I’m startled to find my rings sitting beside the sink. I must have been extremely preoccupied to forget to put them back on. I do now. And that’s when she sees it, the tiny detail: my wedding band. Instantly, her eyes widen, and she bites her lip, but she doesn’t comment. Why would she?
Prior to dashing out of the parlor to join Marco, who’s outside smoking, she says, “I’m glad that I chose you to take my virginity,” between clenched teeth.
