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“You know, most people in my chair try to fill the silence.” I wipe the ink from her arm and sit back on my stool. It’s my attempt at enticing a conversation out of her. She’s locked up tight, which makes me want it even more. This woman tests the laws of supply and demand with every exchange.
Anna cocks her head toward me just slightly. “Most people in your chair are nervous.”
She looks deceptively soft. Glossy hair the color of blushed cheeks—it should stand out, but somehow it doesn’t. She could tell me she was born with pink hair and somehow I’d bob my head like it made perfect sense. Almost everything about her is petite, except for those bright hazel eyes that seem to catch everything. Her cotton-candy hair seems to be the only sweet thing about her. I know almost nothing of her personality—if she has one at all.
I raise a brow. That might be the first time she’s strung more than four words together in a sentence. Her voice is soft, but I’ll take it over her usual nod or head shake. Anna is a newer client; we’ve been seeing her for the last few months for the floral piece on her arm.
My station is set up for function; it doesn’t need decor when I bring this much personality into the space—I’m the antithesis of my client. Supplies are all I need. Black tray, black chair, black cords coiled neatly. Gloves, towels, tapes, ink. No framed art or trinkets. What would I even put up?
We stare at each other in silence and I hold my breath in case she’s willing to toss me any more freebies. Nothing. Her lips remain sealed before she turns to look straight ahead.
I take more ink into the small cluster of needles and lean forward, shading the inky lotus. It’s a decently sized piece, spanning shoulder to wrist, one that we’ve been working on over several sessions. I’ll be wrapping it up today, since I’m no longer able to stretch out the number of appointments.
“But you’re not nervous?”
She’s barely loud enough to be heard over the buzzing. “I trust you.”
The corner of my mouth tilts up. “Wow, look at you opening up.” She doesn’t respond, so I continue to bait her; this is more than I usually get. “You’re awfully quiet for somebody sitting through pain.”
“Oh, does talking make it hurt less?”
My eyes widen with excitement. Is that snark?
“No, but it makes the experience more interesting.”
She hesitates before speaking. “Are you bored?”
“I’m never bored on the first Saturday of the month.”
I glimpse a barely-there smile fighting for its life on the side profile of her lips. She opens her mouth and then closes it again. Just when I think I’ve lost her, she asks, “Why’s that?”
My tongue pokes the inside of my cheek, relishing the win. She’s lucky I’m in a humble mood. I could be such an annoying asshole right now. “Because those are the days I get you.”
The blush deepening her cheeks makes me chuckle. No amount of silence can cover that up.
“Smooth,” she counters with a playful eye roll, and I spot the faint smile.
“So, where do you go to not talk when you aren’t here?”
The grin on her face feels like a million bucks. “Depends on what day it is.”
“Okay. Tuesday?”
“I’m working.”
“Has anyone ever told you how much you overshare—what do you do?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Honesty is the best policy. “Obviously, I’m hoping to stalk you in my free time.” My words drip with sarcasm.
“I’m a social media manager.”
“What company?”
“Sorry, I make a habit of not telling stalkers where I work.”
Too late for that. You work from home for your pro hockey brother’s charity, Kucera Housing, which mostly provides accommodation for sober living transitions. You’ve worked there for three years. I’m guessing you’re the inspiration for the organization, considering it was founded around the same time you did a stint at a rehab facility in California a few years back. You relapsed once, but I’m guessing you’ve stayed sober since, considering you haven’t been admitted anywhere.
