regret.
“So, Emmett Black.” I sit down in the chair because I’m tired of standing and because I want to know more about him. “How long have you lived in Hamilton?”
“Couple of years. You?”
“Couple of weeks. I like it. It’s different here.”
He laughs. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure,” I say. “It’s so cute and perfect, with this glaze of southern charm over it. People try to be so much like what they’re
supposed
to be that it makes them a little crazy. It’s the reason I decided to live here. That and the job offer.” And the small matter of fleeing a terrifying encounter with the divine, but never mind about that.
“Where do you work?”
“At the
Morning Gazette
. I’m a writer, copy editor, chimney sweep—basically, if it needs to be done, I’m the person to do it. Except for selling ad space. I am not a salesperson.”
“No, I can see that.”
I look to see if he’s making fun of me and decide that he is, but not in a bad way.
“What brought you to the tattoo business? I’m not beingnosy,” I say before he can answer. “I’m doing my job. We do profiles on prominent and/or interesting citizens.”
“You think I qualify?” His deep voice carries amusement, skepticism and a hint of resentment.
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” I say. That surprises a laugh out of him, which pleases me no end.
But he doesn’t have a chance to answer, because the bell jingles behind me. We both turn to see two giggling college girls walk in, standing close and bumping into each other for strength.
“How can I help you?” he says. It’s only when he steps toward them that I realize how close he’s been standing to me.
“Hi,” one says uncertainly, glancing at him, then at me. “Um, we wanted to get matching tattoos.” They both start giggling again.
“Yeah, you know”—giggle, giggle—“tramp stamps.”
Emmett looks serious as he listens to the description of the tattoo.
“I can sketch you something. Come back in an hour.”
“Oh.” They’re clearly disappointed and shoot another quick appraising glance in my direction. “We can’t, you know, do it now?” I wonder if they think I’m his girlfriend.
“If you picked flash, I could do it now. But if you want something original, then I have to draw it first,” he explains patiently.
A furious discussion ensues, with lots of giggling, hair-twirling and lip-biting.
“He’s got mad skills,” I pipe in with conviction. Come back in an hour, I think, I’m not finished talking with himyet. Emmett doesn’t look my way, but I feel he’s hiding a smile.
The girls roll their eyes, but it’s settled: they decide they would rather have an “original design.” I can tell how much it pleases them to phrase it that way, and I can almost hear them talk about it at the next party they go to. An
original
design.
One of a kind
. Except they’re both going to get the same one: two daisies tied together with a ribbon. The design might be original, but the concept is hackneyed.
The bell jingles as they leave and we’re alone in the shop again. An old Indigo Girls song comes on, their deep, raspy voices harmonizing about a faithless lover.
“Thanks for the endorsement,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of my work.”
“How long before they have a great big fight and aren’t speaking to each other anymore?” I ask, ignoring his ironic tone.
“Six months.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“And no,” he says. “I don’t feel bad that the tattoo will be there forever, long after they’re not friends.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it,” he says in that deep voice. “Everyone does. What a tattoo does is capture a moment. It’s there with you, a part of you, long after the moment is gone and the memory fades.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “But don’t come crying to me when they sue you.”
Again, I feel almost proud when he
“So, Emmett Black.” I sit down in the chair because I’m tired of standing and because I want to know more about him. “How long have you lived in Hamilton?”
“Couple of years. You?”
“Couple of weeks. I like it. It’s different here.”
He laughs. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure,” I say. “It’s so cute and perfect, with this glaze of southern charm over it. People try to be so much like what they’re
supposed
to be that it makes them a little crazy. It’s the reason I decided to live here. That and the job offer.” And the small matter of fleeing a terrifying encounter with the divine, but never mind about that.
“Where do you work?”
“At the
Morning Gazette
. I’m a writer, copy editor, chimney sweep—basically, if it needs to be done, I’m the person to do it. Except for selling ad space. I am not a salesperson.”
“No, I can see that.”
I look to see if he’s making fun of me and decide that he is, but not in a bad way.
“What brought you to the tattoo business? I’m not beingnosy,” I say before he can answer. “I’m doing my job. We do profiles on prominent and/or interesting citizens.”
“You think I qualify?” His deep voice carries amusement, skepticism and a hint of resentment.
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” I say. That surprises a laugh out of him, which pleases me no end.
But he doesn’t have a chance to answer, because the bell jingles behind me. We both turn to see two giggling college girls walk in, standing close and bumping into each other for strength.
“How can I help you?” he says. It’s only when he steps toward them that I realize how close he’s been standing to me.
“Hi,” one says uncertainly, glancing at him, then at me. “Um, we wanted to get matching tattoos.” They both start giggling again.
“Yeah, you know”—giggle, giggle—“tramp stamps.”
Emmett looks serious as he listens to the description of the tattoo.
“I can sketch you something. Come back in an hour.”
“Oh.” They’re clearly disappointed and shoot another quick appraising glance in my direction. “We can’t, you know, do it now?” I wonder if they think I’m his girlfriend.
“If you picked flash, I could do it now. But if you want something original, then I have to draw it first,” he explains patiently.
A furious discussion ensues, with lots of giggling, hair-twirling and lip-biting.
“He’s got mad skills,” I pipe in with conviction. Come back in an hour, I think, I’m not finished talking with himyet. Emmett doesn’t look my way, but I feel he’s hiding a smile.
The girls roll their eyes, but it’s settled: they decide they would rather have an “original design.” I can tell how much it pleases them to phrase it that way, and I can almost hear them talk about it at the next party they go to. An
original
design.
One of a kind
. Except they’re both going to get the same one: two daisies tied together with a ribbon. The design might be original, but the concept is hackneyed.
The bell jingles as they leave and we’re alone in the shop again. An old Indigo Girls song comes on, their deep, raspy voices harmonizing about a faithless lover.
“Thanks for the endorsement,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of my work.”
“How long before they have a great big fight and aren’t speaking to each other anymore?” I ask, ignoring his ironic tone.
“Six months.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“And no,” he says. “I don’t feel bad that the tattoo will be there forever, long after they’re not friends.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it,” he says in that deep voice. “Everyone does. What a tattoo does is capture a moment. It’s there with you, a part of you, long after the moment is gone and the memory fades.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “But don’t come crying to me when they sue you.”
Again, I feel almost proud when he
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