Kindred by Tammar Stein Page A

“Take care of it. No sun. No scratching. Keep it clean and wash it every day, but don’t let the water pound on it—it could smear the ink.”
    The two shake hands. Then Facial Hair pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and walks out. A bell jingles as the door closes.
    The tattoo artist dons a new set of gloves and starts cleaning his station. He’s probably seven or eight years older than me, tall and shaved bald. Tattoos cover his arms from his short-sleeved black T-shirt to his wrists; tattoos curve down his neck and disappear under his collar. I can’t see if the rest of him is as inked as his arms, since he’s wearing jeans and heavy motorcycle boots. The black rubber gloves somehow suit him better than his natural skin.
    In my pink sundress and strappy heels, I couldn’t look more out of place.
    “Thanks,” I say. “It was an emergency.”
    “Yeah, I noticed.”
    My face flushes, though his tone is dry, not mocking. I should leave. He turns away and pitches used towels in a medical waste bin. The rock station plays a live recording of “Hotel California.” The ceiling fans create a light breeze, and I don’t feel like walking out. I can’t stop watching him. I can see muscles through his thin shirt, rippling and flexing as he bends over the chair, wiping it down.
    “I guess crosses are pretty popular around here,” I say, walking closer to him and leaning a hip against an adjacent black vinyl chair. I feel a strange pull toward him; there’s something elemental about him that is fascinating. Hamilton is charming and welcoming, but there is no denying that people like to live on the surface here. The pleasant, happy surface. The tattoo artist radiates something deeper and darker. Something true.
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you have one?”
    He looks up for a second. He has dark brown eyes, almost black. “No.”
    “You don’t need to look so shocked,” I say, though it seems there’s little that would shock him.
    He snorts.
    “It’s not like there’s anything wrong with wanting a cross on your leg. I mean, it’s a little egotistical, but the intention is nice.” I probably sound spiteful, because he looks at me oddly. I suddenly feel the same constraint I have felt ever since Raphael’s visit: that I must watch my words. Is it wrong to make jokes about the cross? I’m not certain how celestial intervention works, but I suspect it involves paying close attention to the terrestrial subject, which in this case is me. Is someone up there keeping tally of all my sins? When they reach a certain number, do I irrevocably lose? Everywhere I go, I feel eyes watching me, ears listening, minds judging.
    “So, can you tattoo yourself, or do you have to find someone to do you?” I ask, changing the subject.
    He looks at me again, and I start laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that.” I am a little surprised at myself. The teasing, the one-sided conversation. This isn’t like me. It’s like Mo.
    I sneak quick looks at his arms. At first glance they’re a mess of snaking lines, colors, forms melting into one another. But the more I look, the more the tattoos come together into something that almost makes sense, the way the longer you look at clouds, the more familiar shapes you find. I find a dragon, Maori designs, a battle-ax, a dogwood blossom.
    “I don’t mean to bother you,” I say, remembering that I’m usually shy with strangers. He hasn’t said much as he’s cleanedup his station, and I suddenly wonder how this looks from his perspective. Flirting and ogling are clearly not my strong suit. I reluctantly push myself to stand. “You’re probably busy.”
    “Not really,” he says. “It’s quiet today.” Maybe I’m reaching, but I sense a peace offering there. I wonder if he’s lonely.
    “I’m Miriam,” I say, extending a hand.
    “Emmett Black.” We shake. His hand is warm, his grip strong but very gentle. It feels ridiculously nice. I let go with a palpable sense of