Even Lines: A Slowburn Romance Story

Part 4: You Looked

The thing they don't tell you about tattoos is how it's just you in the chair, waiting for a long time, in the thick of it. After a while, I let my face wander from his forehead to his eyelashes, his cheeks, his lips, his chin. It felt intrusive to watch him while he worked, to think I'd know how serious his expression was while he did it and he wouldn't know. He couldn't guess.

"What?" he said and my eyes jumped to his eyes but he was still looking at my stomach.

I shook my head and he squeezed my hip again. "Don't move," he murmured.

I lifted his right sleeve a little to get a better view of the ink. "What's this?" I said.

"A trial run. I used to let myself be target practice for anyone who wanted it really. I had to draw the line when they started getting too close to my neck."

"Anything on your left arm?"

He shook his head.

"You're lopsided then," I said, and my hand drifted up his arm—without my conscious assent—and pulled the neck of shirt slightly down to look where the sleeve ended on his right arm. His hand stopped so the gun hovered, buzzing uselessly in the air.

"Chicken," I muttered and dropped my hand, tucking it under my leg.

When I looked back at him, blushing, he was smiling. God this must happen to everyone. I had to keep reminding myself of that fact. It wasn't just me. Millions of people, attractive people with perfect skin and no lumpy stomachs, had sat in this chair before, under his gaze, had maybe even gripped his arm, asked about his ink, his history.

I frowned, thinking of it.

"Okay?" he said.

"Sure." It came out almost irritable and I had to laugh at how ridiculous I was being.

He held the gun above my side, hovering there, looking at me. Millions of people have sat exactly here under his watchful eye, I thought, trying to make it go around peacefully in my head.

I tapped his arm three times. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

He frowned at me.

I frowned back. "Please?"

"Don't look at it," he said, scooting his chair back. "It isn't finished. Promise you won't look."

"You did the shark, didn't you?"

"Don't look."

I looked. The mirror was squeaky clean and I couldn't help it. I had meant only to look at his t-shirt, to frown at my breast's lack of perkiness, but then I was lifting the hem of his shirt, and turning to inspect what he'd done already. It was already lovely, light blue and translucent, feather like and delicate. He had angled it a little, so it looked like the butterfly was mid flight. I was glad he turned it like that, so it wasn't like I was trapping the butterfly there, it wasn't frozen or on display in a glass box for all to poke at. It was just a stop on a long road. I liked it. Perhaps he would just add a black line on the end and be done. It isn't big, I thought.

When I came back to the room, he was sitting on the stool, a water bottle halfway to his mouth. "You looked," he said.

"You're good at this," I told him, and he just looked at me, but it wasn't just a look. It felt like a survey, like an invitation.

I put a hand out for his water and he gave it to me. I took a long sip. I wanted to keep it, his bottle, his shirt. Millions must have thought exactly this.

"Ready to keep going?" he asked.

I nodded and he scooted his stool closer and lifted the hem of my shirt. It isn't just you, I told myself, and shivered.