The Night is Changing Overhead- Larry

The Breath Before We Get a Little Closer

The pavement of Soho, London, was damp with morning dew from the previous night's rain showers. As Harry meandered further into West End, the smooth black pavement changed to a collection of different colored cobblestone pieces. Charcoal, sand, maverick, and burgundy, intertwined into a beautiful yet nonsensical pattern. Miniature pools of water gathered between the unevenly cut squares, water droplets bouncing with each step Harry took.

Shop owners were seen unlocking their doors, mumbling their polite "Hellos" and "Good Mornings" to one another. The entertainment district was waking up and coming to life with every stride Harry took. Harry passed by BAR Soho, giving a slight wave to Duncan, the daytime manager. His destination was the parlor that awaited him on the corner of Old Compton Street.

Harry pulled his leather jacket a bit tighter around his shoulders as he ducked into the local café to grab his morning coffee. Since Harry moved from Holmes Chapel to Soho three years ago, Menchies had become his regular supplier for a morning brew. Well, sometimes at night too if it was a particularly long day and he felt burnt out.

The inside of the café was cozy, warm hues scattered from the painted walls to the rustic tables. It was relatively small in comparison to the other shops that surrounded the area, making it more of a desirable place in Harry's opinion. He waited in the short queue, only three other people in front of him. When he got to the front, he ordered his large coffee, added just a dash of milk, and then made his way back to the city streets.

He held the steaming cup in his left hand, thankful for the heat during the crisp September morning. Pulling out his mobile from his back pocket, Harry saw that it was nearing quarter to nine. He quickened his steps slightly, wanting to have plenty of time to get everything settled before his first appointment of the day.

Harry stopped at the corner, underneath of a sign labeled Idle Hand Tattoo Studio . A rod iron bar held the rectangular sign, the black calligraphy simple against the white and gold backing. When Harry got the rights to the premise, making the entryway sign became his first priority.

At the beginning of the 19th century, Idle Hand was a pub that served as a meeting ground for French exiles, poets apparently. Harry didn't know much about French literature or even 19th century British literature, but there was something about the shop that had a unique charm to it. The old owners kept the architecture as it was when they originally bought it, even left a few pieces of furniture behind. Everything else on Old Compton Street, aside from its name, had been renovated to a more modern look to fit the current century.

During his time at university, while other students joined clubs or athletic teams, Harry had become an apprentice to a tattoo artist named Kevin Paul. All of his life, Harry had been sketching and painting, finding relief and solace in the practice. He wasn't an introvert, not by any means, but he found there were few things that felt better than imprinting his own art onto someone else. Every time somebody came into the studio, there was an immense amount of trust that was put into his hands.

During his final year, Harry had managed to get his tattoo license while balancing writing his dissertation. He lacked the social life any normal university student had. Instead of drinking himself into a stupor on Saturday nights, Harry was crammed in the back corner of Kevin's studio. Pen and notebook in hand as he observed the artist for hours on end. In his eyes, it was worth it.

Once he had passed all of his courses, Harry graduated with a Bachelor's Degree in Business.

After he graduated, Harry moved back home for two years. Except, he wasn't exactly "living" at home. He had managed to make a name for himself during his college years and was scouted to tour with the Euro Tattoo Convention.