tattoo

I'd been tattooing for a long time—first on friends, then on strangers in the studio, and then on him. It was a familiar ritual: the smell of alcohol, the hum of the machine, the warmth of the lamp, and hands that were learning to be careful.

That day, he showed up unannounced, leaned against the doorway, and calmly asked, "Can you give me a tattoo?" I winced—getting a tattoo for someone close to me felt more personal. But he said, "Okay," and invited me to lie down.

We talked about small things: music, food, funny videos, while I applied the stencil. When the machine started to sing, he took a deep breath. At first, he seemed relaxed, but after an hour and a half, his face changed—a vulnerability appeared.
"(Name), what's wrong?" I began, but he interrupted, "I'm fine. Will you be back soon?"