Page 7 of My Turn Petal
“It looks amazing, thank you.” A young woman who is excited about her new tattoo stares at her hand in awe.
“I’m happy you like it. This is your first one so make sure to treat your ink even if it’s a small one. I gave you a detailed brochure with all of the steps.” Ever the professional. Always treats her clients with patience, care, and a big smile on her face.
Plastering a fake grin when she is wilting inside. Always acting tough. Disguising her truest emotions. Not with me, though.
Frankie’s hunting olive-green eyes flick to mine.
I hold her stare, letting it sink to my chest and flare it like she constantly does.
“Thanks again, I’ll be sure to check it. Have a great day.” The woman exits the shop, and now, it is game on for me.
“Theo!” she says my name in her cheery voice—the one that was missing earlier this morning. “I’m so happy to see you.”
She always says that; in our tattoo sessions; when we bump into each other outside of our apartments; when we hang out.
We became good friends during those three years.
She comes to hug me, and I stall to give her a long comforting embrace, the one she always needs. Her appreciative grin molds her cheeks in seconds.
“Me too, how are you?” I reply.
Starting small is the easiest way to minimize damage here. I don’t want to cause more problems when I’m trying to help her solve one.
“Great, thanks for asking.”
I extend my arm, handing her the flowers I got her, “These are for you.”
“Theo… these are so beautiful. Thank you so much.” She takes the bouquet and immediately smells it. “You didn’t have to.” And places them on the desk beside her.
I arch a brow. “I wanted to.”
Shoving her hands to a new pair of spandex gloves, she makes a cheeky face, “Siéntate.”
It always entertains me when she attempts to speak in Spanish around me. I pretend to take off my belt and the look of confusion that washes her face is priceless.
“No!” She stops me, flailing her hands, “That’s not what I meant.”
“You should see the look on your face,” I give her my shit-eating grin and wink at her.
“Ugh, you’re evil.” She nods her chin. “Sit down.”
I tease her, pointing to the seat, “Aquí?”
The corners of her mouth curl and her tongue swipes across her teeth.
I roll the sleeve of my button-up shirt as I sit on the chair. “I decided to change location, instead of my forearm, I want the text on my chest. Is that okay?”
The scent of her apple fragrance lingers in the stored air of her shop.
Pictures hang on the wall to my left and her stool and equipment are on my right.
She settles her phone on the cabinet behind me where a few shelves are lined on the wall above, filled with antique statuettes and ink bottles.
The tattoos became an addiction and so is being around her. Surrounded by her world.
“Of course,” she assures, rolling the stool with her legs on the dark-brown parquet that covers every crevice of this space.
“Is it okay if I unbutton my shirt?” I ask out of respect. Yes, I need to take my shirt to get the tattoo, it’s a no-brainer. But so many times tattoo artist have been treated poorly by their clients and vice versa, thinking they can disrespect them.
