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“Already did.”
“Thanks.”
She sets the phone on my back table and disappears again.
My client glances toward it. “You worked in San Francisco, right?”
“For three years.”
“Do you miss it?”
The question comes up often enough that I don’t have to think very hard anymore.
“Some parts.”
She smiles. “Not the rent?”
“Never the rent.”
We both laugh, and I go back to the peony.
By the time I finish, clean the tattoo, photograph it, and send my client home with aftercare instructions, the shop is quiet enough that I finally have a minute to check my messages.
There’s one from Mateo, who worked two stations down from me in San Francisco.
Call me. We got offered two extra artist spots for Pacific Ink Expo next month. You should take one. Come guest with us for the weekend.
I stare at the screen for a second.
Six months ago, I would’ve answered before he had time to put his phone down.
A convention means clients I don’t normally get access to, other artists whose work I respect, photos, networking, more eyes on my portfolio. A weekend guest spot at my old shop would probably fill before I even posted the dates.
It’s a good opportunity. I know that, but I also know exactly what the weekend would look like.
Drive south after work Thursday. Tattoo all day Friday. Convention Saturday and Sunday. Drinks afterward because there will always be someone I should meet or somebody I haven’t seen in months. Drive home late Sunday or early Monday, then walk back into a full week at Black Fern.
Just imagining it makes me tired.
When I call Mateo back, he answers with, “Tell me you’re coming.”
“Hi to you too.”
“Hi. Now tell me you’re coming.”
I smile and lean against the counter. “I don’t think I am.”
There’s a short silence. “Seriously? You loved that expo last year, and you could easily book the whole weekend.”
“I know.”
“Then what changed?”
I look through the front window at the quiet street outside Black Fern. There’s hardly any traffic. A woman walks past with a dog, and across the street someone is setting a chalkboard sign outside the bakery.
“Nothing bad. I just don’t want to go.”
Mateo is quiet again, but this time it feels less surprised. “You’re happy up there.”
