Even Lines: A Slowburn Romance Story

Part 5: We're In It

"Why isn't there anything in this room?" I asked amidst the whirring.

"We're in it."

"I mean on the wall, the tables. Your right arm is more decorated than this whole room."

"Can't stop thinking of my arms, can you?"

"Would it kill you to put up a poster? I mean, stay a while. Give a hint of who you are."

"I've given plenty of hints."

Even that made me shiver.

"Stay still," he said.

"What hints?" I craned my neck to try to look at his eyes, to search them, but they were hidden by his eyelashes. "Who are you?" I said. "Give me a like, a dislike."

"What is this, twenty questions?"

"So that's a dislike. Now give me a like."

"Chatty, squirmy brunettes," he said.

I wriggled in my seat.

"Don't move," he murmured.

It feels like this for everyone, I reminded myself. It feels exactly like this, I thought, and I didn't move an inch until suddenly I did. I winced when he appeared to return over the spots he'd already hit to add shading. For the first time I felt like I could feel the needle tapping against my ribcage. I looked down at the tattoo gun to see if I could tell exactly where it hit my skin, wincing and wincing.

"Give me one," he said, putting the tattoo gun behind him. "A like and a dislike."

"Repetition," I said. "You decide which."

He grabbed my hand to lift me up a little and handed me another bottle of water. The corners of his mouth were turned up. "You like sarcasm," he said.

"And men who like sarcastic women."

The tips of his fingers were still touching my inner arm. Lean in, I thought. I dare you.

He took his hand away. "You give me ten minutes and I'll show you."

I gasped. "An authorized look. Ah, you know what? It was more fun to sneak it."

"Lay back," he said, but he was smiling a little, and he kept smiling like that for the next ten minutes, especially if I randomly interjected with a like (rooms with decoration) and a dislike (the last four of a ten minute window). Then suddenly we were done.

He was holding a mirror over me, and I wanted to look at it so badly, but I also kept looking at him while I could, before I walked out of the room for good.

He was directing his little smile towards me now, and it was almost impossible to look away from it, but when I did—when I finally made myself look in the mirror at his work—it was so lovely I could've hugged him. Instead I grinned, and tried to make it warm and comforting, like my arms were around him.

"I was thinking pink," he said, putting the mirror behind him. "More peach really or a light purple. For your pair. Here," he said, skimming the spot beneath my right collarbone. "Or here," he said, grazing the spot just above my right hip. My stomach tensed and he held his hand in the air. It hovered there, as he said, "I'm not trying to get you into trouble with your mother, but I think putting it there would balance the pair out better, make a full picture." He looked at my face. "What do you think?"

"Oh gosh," I said, blushing. Here I went with another unveiling, an embarrassing disclosure. I swallowed. "I've never loved my stomach much—you may recall how strange I was about taking my shirt off—I don't think drawing extra attention to it is really in my best interest."