Tap, tap, tap, “That one.” The sound of his voice and the muffled sound of a finger hitting the page brought me out of my slightly derailed train of thought. Slightly derailed? What am I talking about? The train had left the tracks ages ago. I wasn’t even looking through the book anymore; the images my Kelly green eyes were trying so hard to focus on were blurred.
“Huh? What?” I looked up into a pair of blue gray irises. I blinked twice. “What did you say?”
“I said,” he looked down at the page and then looked back up at me, “that one.”
I sighed. Picking out a tattoo really shouldn’t be that difficult. I know my mind, right? I know my body. I know what I want. At least in theory. Everything is always in theory with me. Sometimes I wonder about my thought process. I can go on and on in a debate, I can logically lay out arguments, prepare care plans for my patients, and easily make impromptu decisions. But this? This has taken up too much time and too much energy. Sighing again I started to close the binder.
“No, Katherine, it’s been 3 months already. Pick one.” Fletcher Reynolds said with a little too much force for my liking.
“Katherine? Only my mother calls me Katherine, and she hasn’t done so since I was a child.” I replied coldly, as if I was summoning winter itself to take up residence here. It was always too warm in Marked and Scarred for my tastes, and I tried on more than one occasion to explain that a warm room is going to aid Fletch’s customers in bleeding. He continuously waved away my suggestion to put a chill in the air. He said it would make people shiver and would therefore ruin his “works of art”.
He chuckled and replied, “You’re behaving like a child Katie. It’s a tattoo. Some ink, a needle, and my very capable, steady hands.” He stretched out his hands in front of him and grinned. My heart melted a little and I caught myself. That smile. I’ve been virtually powerless against it since I was a child. Fletch and I grew up across the street from each other, we went to the same school, the same church, the same college. He graduated with an art degree and I became a nurse. We’ve always been opposite of each other, but it’s always worked for us. He keeps me on my toes, and I keep him tethered to the ground. Best friends.
“When did I say you weren’t capable? And I’m not behaving like a child! I’m…” I uncrossed my arms and adjusted my pouting face when I saw the smirk of his mouth and the twinkle in his eye. I took a step back from the counter and took a deep breath. Looking to the side, my voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t like needles. And I might bleed to death because this room is entirely too warm, and I’m not sure I want a tattoo anyway.” When I looked back at his angular face the smirk and twinkle were gone. Instead I found a look of compassion. He looked down at the binder; closing it he gave a simple sigh and looked up at me.
“You never said I wasn’t capable, and you are behaving like a scared child. You’re a nurse, and you’re not afraid of needles. You’re afraid of pain, that’s completely different.” I hated when he made sense, when he knew what I actually meant, when he wouldn’t let me lie to myself. It’s an incredibly annoying trait.
Resigned, I stepped forward leaning against the counter in my v-neck navy blue scrubs. My five foot nine inch frame fit easily against the tall counter. Something about Fletch’s shop that I liked, it was made for tall people. He was over six feet and had found himself loath to adapt to “short people” counters. I agreed with him. Most counter tops were made for people around five foot six and hunching over so you can wash your hands or chop some vegetables can get a little old.
“Fine, you’re right. I don’t like pain. I don’t like being stabbed. I don’t like bleeding, and I don’t like being sore.” At the word stabbed my hand went instinctively to my right side, tracing the three inch lateral scar over my top. I looked up at Fletch, his face clouded as he followed my movement. I watched his mouth turned downwards and the even rise and fall of his shoulders while his breathing changed. Quickly, I put my hands in my scrub pockets and looked down, embarrassed by my scar. By all my scars. When I glanced back up at Fletch’s handsome face the look of haunting memories was gone and a lopsided grin had replaced it. God, I love that grin.
“You do realize that I’m not going to stab you, right? I’m just going to, well, fine. I’m going to stab you while injecting ink into your skin. But it’s not that bad, Kate. It’s nothing like…” He looked at my side again and his eyes turned to the color of ash. His attitude went from the confident man that had taught me how to drive stick shift and roller skate, to a worried and burdened posture, one that I had come to recognize well while he sat by my bedside for weeks.
“Huh? What?” I looked up into a pair of blue gray irises. I blinked twice. “What did you say?”
“I said,” he looked down at the page and then looked back up at me, “that one.”
I sighed. Picking out a tattoo really shouldn’t be that difficult. I know my mind, right? I know my body. I know what I want. At least in theory. Everything is always in theory with me. Sometimes I wonder about my thought process. I can go on and on in a debate, I can logically lay out arguments, prepare care plans for my patients, and easily make impromptu decisions. But this? This has taken up too much time and too much energy. Sighing again I started to close the binder.
“No, Katherine, it’s been 3 months already. Pick one.” Fletcher Reynolds said with a little too much force for my liking.
“Katherine? Only my mother calls me Katherine, and she hasn’t done so since I was a child.” I replied coldly, as if I was summoning winter itself to take up residence here. It was always too warm in Marked and Scarred for my tastes, and I tried on more than one occasion to explain that a warm room is going to aid Fletch’s customers in bleeding. He continuously waved away my suggestion to put a chill in the air. He said it would make people shiver and would therefore ruin his “works of art”.
He chuckled and replied, “You’re behaving like a child Katie. It’s a tattoo. Some ink, a needle, and my very capable, steady hands.” He stretched out his hands in front of him and grinned. My heart melted a little and I caught myself. That smile. I’ve been virtually powerless against it since I was a child. Fletch and I grew up across the street from each other, we went to the same school, the same church, the same college. He graduated with an art degree and I became a nurse. We’ve always been opposite of each other, but it’s always worked for us. He keeps me on my toes, and I keep him tethered to the ground. Best friends.
“When did I say you weren’t capable? And I’m not behaving like a child! I’m…” I uncrossed my arms and adjusted my pouting face when I saw the smirk of his mouth and the twinkle in his eye. I took a step back from the counter and took a deep breath. Looking to the side, my voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t like needles. And I might bleed to death because this room is entirely too warm, and I’m not sure I want a tattoo anyway.” When I looked back at his angular face the smirk and twinkle were gone. Instead I found a look of compassion. He looked down at the binder; closing it he gave a simple sigh and looked up at me.
“You never said I wasn’t capable, and you are behaving like a scared child. You’re a nurse, and you’re not afraid of needles. You’re afraid of pain, that’s completely different.” I hated when he made sense, when he knew what I actually meant, when he wouldn’t let me lie to myself. It’s an incredibly annoying trait.
Resigned, I stepped forward leaning against the counter in my v-neck navy blue scrubs. My five foot nine inch frame fit easily against the tall counter. Something about Fletch’s shop that I liked, it was made for tall people. He was over six feet and had found himself loath to adapt to “short people” counters. I agreed with him. Most counter tops were made for people around five foot six and hunching over so you can wash your hands or chop some vegetables can get a little old.
“Fine, you’re right. I don’t like pain. I don’t like being stabbed. I don’t like bleeding, and I don’t like being sore.” At the word stabbed my hand went instinctively to my right side, tracing the three inch lateral scar over my top. I looked up at Fletch, his face clouded as he followed my movement. I watched his mouth turned downwards and the even rise and fall of his shoulders while his breathing changed. Quickly, I put my hands in my scrub pockets and looked down, embarrassed by my scar. By all my scars. When I glanced back up at Fletch’s handsome face the look of haunting memories was gone and a lopsided grin had replaced it. God, I love that grin.
“You do realize that I’m not going to stab you, right? I’m just going to, well, fine. I’m going to stab you while injecting ink into your skin. But it’s not that bad, Kate. It’s nothing like…” He looked at my side again and his eyes turned to the color of ash. His attitude went from the confident man that had taught me how to drive stick shift and roller skate, to a worried and burdened posture, one that I had come to recognize well while he sat by my bedside for weeks.