I have proud skin.
It is the largest organ, the only one that makes sense to me. The only one that can act as a shield and a canvas and the only one that is full of nerves that make my skin crawl when you touch me. I am falling in love with you, like I've known you for longer than an hour. I imagine that once this dull ache fades away, you'll strip off your gloves and then our clothing, and we'll fuck right in this faded, height-adjustable chair. The ink won't even be dry before you invade me and I'll welcome it. You've seen my blood and heard my mewling cries of pain that morphed into discontented sighs, I'm trusting you with my body, the next event in this chain should be you inside me.
I nervously consider my options. I can try to start a conversation but that might annoy you. I can close my eyes and cling tightly to the few times your fingertips accidentally brushed my skin. I can make eye contact and look away and blush like a child. My mind is racing and I stop watching you, and it is then that you choose to speak.
"I'm stopping for a few minutes, I need a break." You clean up a little and then link your hands together above your head and arch your spine. I hear some bones pop and you grin, contentedly, like the cheshire cat. You turn to the stereo and ask if there's anything I want to hear. My head shakes a 'no' before I can force myself to spit out the name of some elegantly underground metal band that I picture you loving, but to my surprise you choose some airy electronica music. I close my eyes and let my head rest against the back of the chair, and listen to it, and try to hear you breathe as you move around. There's the sound of a can being opened and I imagine you're drinking Red Bull, and then I imagine you at a bar drinking shot after shot of vodka and Red Bull and going home with me.
My imagination gets the drop on me sometimes.
I know that if we went home together, you'd fall for me like I'm falling for you, and that's exactly why it will never happen. I am not even entirely sure I want it to happen, because eventually you'd forget to treat me like a queen, and one day I'd find you choosing to watch Law and Order marathons instead of spending time with me, and then everything would just go to hell. You'd stop coloring your hair blue and green and I'd stop shaving my legs and we'd get old and fat and probably have some kids. We'd end up resenting each other and everything would be ruined.
The needle bites into my flesh again, turning my mind away from its little The Future tangent. Thank god. I moan a tiny bit and you choke back a smirk.
"Darlin, if it hurts that much I can stop." My cheeks turn red.
"Who said it hurt?"
"A lady after my own heart, eh?" He grins. His grin could end poverty and bring about world peace. "I'm almost done anyway, sugar. Whether you're relieved or disappointed is your own business."
Hmm. He could be flirting, he could be trying to make up for a too-easily-gotten grin. He could be doing any number of things. I stay quiet for a few minutes and then blurt out,
"What if I want to make it your business?" He blinks a few times and a slow, liquid smile lights up his features
"Is that an invitation to ask you out for drinks?" I blush furiously and nod. "I don't usually go out with people I tattoo." My face must show my disappointment, because he reaches over and pats me on the hand.
"I, uh. I don't really know what to say." He puts down the ink he's fiddling with, leans his head down, and kisses me. Hard.
"Don't say anything, gorgeous."
~
Trembling with nerves or lust, he fumbles with the zipper on her jeans. Dust floats in a lazy beam of sunlight that just so happens to hit his bare back. Music plays in the background and is soon lost underneath heavy breathing and mumbled expletives and exclamations. Fingers tangle in her dyed-black hair, muscles spasm, and eventually the world goes back to normal. They dress without speaking.
~

He finishes my tattoo, I hand him some money, and stumble out of the shop in a daze.
I've got 14 tattoos littering my proud skin.
He's done every one.

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