Page 27 of Campfires & Canines
“Do you want some water?” he offers, heading towards his fridge.
“Sure.” I accept the glass. He leans against the counter, watching me. “Thanks.”
I wander into his living room. A leather sofa is framed with bookshelves. Glossy plants drape the window with vines trailing down. A television hangs opposite.
Framed charcoal drawings surround the TV showing abstract strokes gracefully outlining the human form. I'm fascinated by the chaotic, sweeping lines. The matte texture suggests they are originals.
"Did you draw these?" I ask, sipping my drink.
"Um no, my dad did." He runs a hand through his dark waves. "I know, kind of weird to have your dad's figure drawings."
"No," I rush to say, "They're stunning. And I think it's inspiring."
"Thanks." That earns me another small smile. The switch from moody artist to gleaming Greek god is still startling. But I happen to like both versions of Slate.
"Is this where you grew up?" I ask. Stupid. It's way too new and small.
"I got it a few years ago. My dad's cabin is bigger, but I felt weird staying there without him, so I closed it up. For some day."
"Sorry," I whisper. I lost my dad as a child, but for Slate, it's more recent. It’s obvious in the tightness of his jaw and the tensionof his shoulder blades. I may have learned to live with it years ago, but he hasn't fully.
"I barely remember my dad, but my mom still talks about him. She has so many stories, I feel like I know him." I'm not sure it helps, but it's my story.
"My mom left when I was a baby, so it was just him and me. I'm lucky I had him," he reflects.
"He must have been great," I say.
I want to learn everything about his childhood and share my own. I want to tell him how my mom never recovered from losing my dad, and how we never stayed in one place longer than a year or two. It was the opposite of an idyllic upbringing in this forest community.
Instead, I change the subject. "Your friends' tattoos were amazing. How much can I pay you for this?"
He looks startled, his relentlessly green eyes flashing. "Don't worry about it." He takes my glass and sets it in the sink beside his own.
"Slate." I prop my fists on my hips, ready for an argument.
"Hazel, don't worry about it." His voice softens. "My friends pitch in for supplies, but I've already got more than enough. I'm just happy I still get to tattoo sometimes."
"At least let me buy you lunch." I have to do something, but I realize how silly that sounds. "Or whatever. Maybe a gift card?"
He laughs as he walks past me. The sound rolls over me, causing goosebumps to prickle down my arms. He disappears through an archway into his bedroom. I spy the corner of a gray comforter, tucked in military style.
He returns with a bin of equipment and sets it on a small wheeled side table. He pulls the ottoman closer and gestures for me to sit on the sofa. I obey.
We’re so close. This won’t be weird. I won’t let it be.
He lays out some plastic wrap, paper towels, his tattoo machine, and a variety of other little items. Without looking up, he asks, "What are you thinking?"
I’m distracted by his practiced motions and the way the tattoos on his forearms twist. “Um, what?”
“For your tattoo?”
I flush, squeezing my knees together. "How about moon phases, like we talked about? I don't know what else. Sorry."
"How about some little vines with them? Or stars?" he suggests.
“Sounds beautiful.”
"Okay, I’ve got a few ideas. Where are you thinking for location?"
