Sage

1

My curious eyes watched as the needle repeatedly jutted down into the customer's dark skin, leaving a trail of black ink that would eventually make for a lion.

How typical. I thought.

Jenny, the five-foot-three tattoo artist who also happened to be my best friend, hums along to the upbeat pop music that plays over the shop as she grabs a white napkin and swipes along the skin to clear the excess ink.

Around us, in the little stalls, the familiar buzz of tattoo needles filled the air along with the music that blared. The entire lobby was full, but everyone was checked in, so I found myself mindlessly heading toward Jenny's stall, where I knew she would be close to finishing up a tattoo.

I met Jenny from the block last year when I rear-ended her Toyota corolla after passive-aggressively tailgating it for about two miles on the interstate.

After we pulled over, Jenny had immediately got out of the car and apologized.

She apologized because I hit her.

When I found out we lived in the same apartment complex, it had been a wrap since then. She'd repeatedly text me sweet morning messages, letting me know when I got packages and always inviting me over for dinner.

Feel free to come over! I cooked shrimp alfredo! You seem like an alfredo gal! She'd text me.

For the first three weeks, I ignored them and did as I usually did; went to work at the Vape store I worked at, utilize some mildly creative hobbies I had, and watched Rick and Morty until I fell asleep.

It wasn't until she knocked on my door around 8 in the evening one winter night. She'd broken up with her girlfriend and needed a friend.

How did I tell this boundary-over-stepping stranger that I wasn't her friend and couldn't give less of a shit that she'd gone through a breakup? I didn't. I grabbed the tub of ice cream from her arms, checking that it was strawberry before inviting her in.

Jenny from the block wasn't a nickname I'd given her because she sort of resembled a younger Jennifer Lopez with her caramel skin and curly hair. It was because she literally stayed around the corner from my apartment, a floor underneath.

She pulls back and looks over her shoulder, her full lips curving into a grin. "What do you think, Ellie?"

"You know I don't know shit about tattoos." I say, my eyes flitting across the ink, then to her. She wiggles her eyebrows excitedly before adjusting the little leather stool and looking at her customer.

I'd only started working at the Black Sheep a few weeks ago when their old receptionist quit. When Jenny eagerly invited me to apply, I thought, why not? The vape store hadn't been paying much and it was a twenty-minute commute four days a week. With the shop, I came in whenever I wanted. The owner was never there and the cameras didn't work. This was a little secret that our piercer, a bubbly blonde by the name of Niall, happened to slip out one night.

"How're you feeling, Ty?"

"It's good." He brushes off the obvious pain he's feeling while recording a quick video of the progress.

"You got a six-inch rose coming up," I tell her, hanging on to the cement wall surrounding her workspace. When she nods and shoots me an excited smile, I exit. My sneakers stick against the cement floor as I'm engrossed by the chatter of people eager to permanently mark their bodies or shove needles in places they don't belong.

I didn't have any tattoos, despite wanting to get one. I didn't give a shit if it has meaning or sentiment, I just wanted to be able to say I got one done. As far as piercings, I had a silver septum in my nose that was barely noticeable compared to what the other workers here had, but I got it when I was seventeen. I don't see myself having anything else.