Page 29 of Campfires & Canines
He smooths a wrinkle of fabric flat against my breast. My stomach lurches and I fight to stay still. This little tattoo is going to take forever this close to him.
Slate
I finish all five moon phases and pause, straightening my back and taking a deep breath. Her skin is an expanse of pale gold marred only by my art. It’s sinful and exquisite.
"How are you feeling?" I check her unruffled expression. The girl has a high pain tolerance, I'll give her that.
"Told you I'd be fine." She quirks up half her mouth in a pleased smirk. It's adorable.
"Okay, let's get this done." I drape my chord out of the way, leaning in.
The hand holding her shirt shifts, showing me her dark green painted nails again. They're almond-shaped, a bit like claws. I imagine them digging into my skin.
Nope, not appropriate.
Inhaling sharply, I pull my machine away until I'm focused. This has to be perfect for her. Adjusting my hold on her skin, I lower the needle again, gently tracing the vine running the length of the tattoo. She sits like a rock.
“So what’s your favorite thing to tattoo?” she asks.
I grab a paper towel and wipe off the excess ink.
“I guess natural things. Anything botanical or even animals,” I finally respond. “I like designing art that matches the person.”
“Like plants for Cedar because he loves gardening,” she says.
I pause. “Yeah, exactly that.”
Working my way up, I add clusters of little leaves.
“So why the trees and mountains for yourself?” Her voice is hesitant.
I shade the leaves, unsure of what to say or how to say it. “I feel like it’s part of who I am,” I answer, “like I only am who I am because of where I am from, and I wouldn’t be me anywhere else.”
Her lips pucker into a surprised O shape.
“Sorry, is that weird?” I try to backpedal.
“No,” she says softly, “I can’t imagine feeling that way.”
“Why?” I ask without stopping to think.
Her lashes flutter and her cheeks hollow while she considers her answer. “I’ve never lived in the same place long enough, I guess. After my dad died, we moved around a lot. My mom had a really hard time dealing. She’s not very good at taking care of herself.”
Her voice is low, but every word pierces into my chest as if it was me and not her with a needle sinking into skin.
“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can manage. Grief and anger roll through me. Her father was one of us. In his death, we should have cared for his family. He may have left, but it didn’t change that she deserved so much better. If her mother couldn’t cope, then surely Hazel was left to fend for herself.
“It’s okay,” she reaches out with her other hand and lightly presses her fingers against the exposed skin above my gloves. Is she trying to comfortme? Surprised, I look from her hand to her beautiful face, and she pulls away.
I can’t begin to express the injustice now eating away at me. It’s acid in my lungs. But words don’t change the past and she doesn’t need my sympathy.
“Is there a lot left to do?” she asks, redirecting me.
“The stars and then some shading,” I answer. She burrows down a bit more and stills, looking up at me patiently.
Back to the business on hand. Cautiously, I add the fine-line star clusters. Each array is so precise, I have to move slowly. It's worth the extra effort because the delicate starbursts are the perfect detail to complete the design.
Hazel is watching me, her honey eyes staring up at me. At this angle, her lips are pillows, her nose upturned the smallest amount. Her golden waves fall across the sofa cushion on either side of the pillow. The roots are dark - she must bleach her hair. I bet she’s stunning as a brunette too.
