Inked Star

one.

The scent of green soap wafted its way into the waiting area, reminding me of sanitized hospital wards and their pristine floors. I was sitting on the long bench, my back turned against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The receptionist—whose hair was a striking shade of magenta—was simultaneously talking to someone on the phone and tapping away on the computer. I caught the words 'reschedule' and '7 p.m.'.

I found that concept strange—to cater to someone at that time of night.

I perused the murals once again, noticing new details whenever I did—a butterfly in a corner here, a compass squeezed between the lighthouse and a map there. I felt conscious because of my attire: a loose, white blouse paired with a pastel blue maxi skirt. I wondered if it would be much better if I wore jeans and a regular shirt instead.

Not that I had this thing meticulously planned, but anyway—

"Aster?"

I quickly shifted my gaze to the receptionist upon hearing my name. She flashed me a smile. She had straight, pearly white teeth, and her fangs had studs on them.

"Yes?" I choked out.

"Your tattoo artist will see you now. Just head on straight through those curtains and enter the first door to your right."

"Thanks," I gingerly stood up and walked across the room. My heart was beating violently, and if it flailed around a little more, I was certain it would pop out of my chest. With trembling hands, I pulled down the door handle and entered the room—the first thing I noticed was the black chair, then the ring light. A neon sign of a sunflower hung on the wall, and a little to its left was a sink. There were hanging shelves here and there, filled with sanitizing agents and equipment I was unfamiliar with.

I slightly jumped up when someone entered the room. I turned around and saw a man about my age with bleached hair. He had a lean figure, and his black compression shirt made his toned muscles more prominent.

"Aster, right?" he lifted the small box he was holding. "Sorry to have kept you waiting—I had to grab some gloves next door."

"You're all right," I said. His velvety voice didn't quite match his image. He was soft-spoken, and he had this languid way of speaking. Looking at him, I expected a deeper tone, and something more stoic.

He gestured for me to have a seat. He settled on the swivel chair. He pulled the cart closer to him, which looked like a tiny desk. He glanced at me before unlocking his laptop. He did a few clicks before rotating his machine so I could also see the screen.

"You wanted this?"

I looked at the image. It was the one I had sent the day before, right after I took my patch test. It was nothing too ornate, really. Just the phrase 'so it goes' in my handwriting.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"Where would you like it inked?"

"My lower back?"

My tattoo artist half-smirked, which exposed his dimples, exquisitely located near the corners of his lips. "Why do you sound so unsure, Ma'am?"

"It's my first time."

"I see. How is your pain tolerance?"

"It's quite high."

He nodded. "Stand up, please."

Albeit a bit confused, I did what he instructed me to do. He pushed the cart away, then, he asked me to come closer. I did, and he slid his chair back to give me more space. There was a tall mirror adjacent to us.