Chapter Text
The heel of Lydia's shaking foot knocked against the cheap chair. The girl next to her had been clicking her pen for the last twenty minutes. The one on the other side of the hallway had bitten her nails bloody.
They looked nearly identical, almost comically so. Same height, same hair, same empty, desperate look in their copy and paste eyes. They'd tried to differentiate themselves in small ways—a gray stripe running up the side of cropped, black leggings, or a French braid ponytail instead of a sleek, high one—but the fact that they even tried to be unique in the same way only added to the humiliation.
She didn't know their names, but she did know their faces. She'd seen them at auditions all over town, always going for the same roles as her. They seemed nice enough, but at the end of the day, they were her competition.
Lydia was painfully familiar with the pattern by now. A new girl would start showing up in rooms like this. They would begin to recognize each other, make pleasant small talk in the bathroom, and then one day, without warning, she would disappear through The Doors. By the next day her face would be inescapable—social media, commercials, posters up all around town. And like clockwork, another duplicate would move in to replace her.
After seven years, Lydia had never been called back through The Doors. She was the only constant face in the endless rotation.
But now it was down to three: Her, the pen clicker, and the nail biter. She'd gotten to the final round of auditions twice before. She prayed this third time would be the charm.
The anticipation was nearly enough to mask how exhausted she was. She'd left her apartment nearly sixteen hours ago. Her lunch break was spent poring over the spiral-bound book of sides they assigned her, and their second dance audition of the day bled over into dinner. While sweat soaked their clothes, the casting team made half-hearted notes in between bites of Sweetgreen.
Everyone said that in this city, the best thing to do was audition and forget. Film a self-tape, sing your 16-bar cut, smile politely, then walk away. If she let herself agonize over every single audition, the waiting would swallow her whole.
But this was different. She'd never been asked to stick around afterwards. A quick glance down at her phone told her they'd been waiting in that hallway for nearly two hours. Clearly, beyond The Doors, they were making a very difficult, very important decision. Any minute now, the three anxious hopefuls would become two.
This could be it.
A latch clicked.
Like they'd been electrocuted, all three of them adjusted their nearly-identical plain black tops and sat up straight. Lydia's heartbeat was deafening in her ears. She thought she might be sick. The Doors opened.
"Oh." One of the runners that had been helping herd them all day stood frozen; clipboard in hand and brow furrowed in confusion. "Uh, what are you all still doing here?"
The girls glanced at each other. "We were told to wait," the pen clicker said.
"By who?"
"One of the other assistants."
He winced. "Got it. Well—" He hugged the clipboard to his chest. "Our apologies for making you wait, but you're all free to go." With an unsympathetic nod and a smile, he walked by them. They were all still frozen, mouths dropped open in shock, when he stopped at the end of the hallway and looked back at them. "Thank you for your time today." He said it at a glacial pace and with far too much enunciation. As if they were still sitting there because they didn't hear him the first time.
Something clicked—they all got up at once. They stuttered out stunned thank yous as they hoisted their bags onto their shoulders. As soon as he rounded the corner, they shared matching looks of embarrassment.
The elevator ride back to street level was quiet. Lydia wasn't even sure that any of them were breathing. For the first time all day, the three of them stepped outside where they were met with the smell of asphalt after rain. "S—see you guys later, I guess," the nail biter choked out. And they went their separate ways.
For about half a block, she trudged down the sidewalk—staring down at the reflection of the street lights on the wet concrete with unfocused eyes. She felt… nothing. Then the heel of her character shoe snapped under her weight, buckling her leg and nearly sending her tumbling into the street. After that, she felt everything.
Disappointment, of course. Humiliation, too. But surprisingly, it was rage that flooded her body down to her sore feet. She slapped her hand across her mouth and screamed into her palm until her throat stung. Then, chest heaving, she hobbled over to a bench and started ripping the ruined shoes off of her feet in favor of her sneakers.
She had had it.
She was used to taking disrespect on the chin, but something about this felt like the last straw. No one ever saw her. No one ever listened to her. No one cared. And she was done.
She stormed down the sidewalk so quickly she may as well have been jogging. The fog hanging low in the dense, muggy air was probably from from the steam stacks, but there was also a very real chance that it was emanating out of the top of her head. She ducked into the first alley she passed and flung her shoes into the dumpster one by one, relishing in the loud clang they made against the metal.
Could she have fixed the shoe? Probably. Could she afford a new pair? Of course not. But she just needed to throw something.
The back of her throat was thick with the promise of tears, but she swallowed them down. Crying in public would have felt like letting them win, somehow. The train station was two blocks away. The ride up to the Bronx just 45 minutes. She could wait.
The city blurred past her as she charged through the night. She didn't even see the people passing by. Everything was the same. Everyone was the same. Cold, and unforgiving, and apathetic. Nothing existed but the route home.
Then something broke up the monotonous wash of gray. A flickering neon sign—red, and brighter than the others. Lydia took a few steps back and looked up. Black Heart Tattoo. The logo showed a tattoo gun carving a zigzag break through an otherwise symmetrical heart.
The lights were still on. Her feet carried her up to the door before she even realized what was happening.
As she pulled the door open, the smell of rubbing alcohol hit her in a wave. "Hello?" she called over the jingle of the doorbell. "Is anyone h—"
The rest of her question died in her throat as someone popped up from behind the counter. Their eyes met.
She was… stunning. As in, Lydia stood there stunned, momentarily forgetting where she was, when she was, why she was. The whole world narrowed down to her.
Her hair was cropped short, but bunched up into pretty waves at the back of her neck. She was a tiny thing, the counter barely came up to her chest, but her arms and hands were strong. Her eyes were light—blue maybe? Green? Suddenly, Lydia cared about very little else than getting close enough to find out for sure. Her delicate round face showed the beginnings of smile lines. The collection of fine features stood in stark contrast to the black ink covering every visible inch of skin below her jaw.
It was an intricate patchwork of classic looking tattoos. Bold lines, dramatic shading, and all two-dimensional; like a collection of randomly placed stickers on her pale skin. Half-images disappeared underneath the fabric of her shirt. Lydia's fingers itched to see where they disappeared to.
"H—hi."
The beautiful stranger lifted one eyebrow and threw her a playful smirk. Which was rude. "Hi."
"Uh…"
"Can I help you with something, or…?"
She shook her head to clear it of the momentary distraction and straightened her spine. "I want a tattoo."
"Great," she nodded. "Call back tomorrow during business hours and make an appointment."
Lydia crossed her arms and cocked one hip, channeling her mother more than she'd ever willingly admit. "No, I want one now."
"Yeah, I don't usually take walk-ins at 9 pm," she said with a shrug. "Sorry."
"Okay, look—" she snapped. "I've had a really bad day. Like, potentially one of the most exhausting, humiliating, pointless, waste of time days I've ever had, and—long story short, I am not leaving here until I get a tattoo." Her head fell back with a visceral groan. "God, will someone please just give me something that I want for once?"
By the end of her little rant, her voice had risen to a yell if she was being generous, and a shriek if she wasn't. The stranger's eyebrows shot up.
That was the reality check she needed. "Oh my god." The ridiculousness of the situation hit her like a freight train. She buried her face in her hands. "I am so sorry. I don't know what I'm doing. None of this is your fault. You don't give a shit about my bad day—why would you? Wow, I am really losing it." She fumbled behind her back for the door handle. "Please forget this ever happened. I am so sorry I bothered you. Have, um—have a nice night."
The door hadn't even opened enough to trigger the doorbell before she heard a, "Wait!" behind her.
Lydia looked back over her shoulder.
"I'll do it."
She felt her eyes blow wide. "Really? Right now?"
A tattooed finger came up to rub along her smiling bottom lip. "Yes, right now. Get back in here." She walked out from behind the counter and over to a waiting room area—a row of what looked like old, wooden theater seats still connected at the armrests. She waved Lydia over, then grabbed a black binder from a nearby table. "So, what do you want?"
"Um…" She hadn't exactly thought that far.
"Well, I'd like to be out of here by dawn, so it'll have to be something from my flash. Take a look at these and I'll start getting my station ready."
Lydia absolutely did not watch the way her hips swayed when she walked away.
She cleared her throat and settled in to browse, flopping her bag down on the chair next to her. The book was a thick stack of papers and photos in plastic sheet protectors. A cursory flip-through told her that each page had a different theme, then the next several pages after were pictures of healed examples; some fresh, some that were a few years old.
The first page was full of basic tattoo designs—ones that were incredibly familiar, but also not her style. Anchors, skulls, roses, and even some very simple pin-ups. They looked like something from a bygone era. The next page looked more like what this artist had on herself. Still bold and simple, but the actual designs were things she'd never seen in that style. Lanterns, snakes, portraits of women's faces, and daggers.
The next sheet was an immediate contender. This one was botanical themed. Different kinds of flowers, whimsical mushrooms, fairies, and bugs that were somehow dainty and feminine. Nothing especially jumped out to her, but she couldn't not see herself getting some of them, so that was something.
The one after that was a little too dark for her—grim reapers, skeletons, spiders, and tarot cards. And the one after that, a little too light—a dinosaur wearing cowboy boots, cute chubby animals holding knives and smoking, and a can of Diet Coke.
She ruled out the next three pretty quickly. One had a clear maritime theme with its mermaids, shells, ships, and various sea creatures. The next was all about theatre—which was fair enough given where they were in the city, but the last thing she wanted was a ghost light or Hamlet holding Yorick's skull. And the last one was the holiday sheet. Pumpkins, four leaf clovers, and fat baby Cupids. Not for her.
She revisited the botanical page, but none of them were quite right. They were all objectively good, the whole book was full of gorgeous designs, but none of them felt like forever to her.
For a few seconds, she considered making a run for it. She hadn't yet done anything irreversible; maybe just walking into the shop and pretending to be cool for ten minutes was enough to scratch her rebellious itch.
Her legs were sore from hours of dancing on hardwood floors that weren't sprung; she had to brace her hands on her knees just to stand up. She made her way to the station the artist was setting up at. She wore black gloves and was spreading what looked like Vaseline on a little wheeled tray.
Before she could tell her not to waste any more of her time, something caught her eye. There was a black and white flower design taped to the floor-length mirror at her station. It was a peony, she was pretty sure. It was mid-bloom, stretching out wide with round leaves peaking out from underneath it. It almost looked like it was in motion—like it was taking its first deep breath.
"Did you find something you like?"
"What's that?"
She followed her pointed finger over to the mirror. "Oh, that? It's something I've been wanting to do for a while, but I haven't had any takers so far."
"I'll take it."
Her whole face lit up—Lydia thought that even if she ended up regretting the tattoo, seeing her smile like that might be enough to make the whole thing worth it. "Really?"
"Yeah. Is that okay? I mean, it doesn't have any special meaning to me, or anything. I just think it's pretty. But that's probably not a good enough reason to get a tattoo, right? Maybe I'll just go pick one of—"
She interrupted her spiral with, "No, I agree. That one's yours."
"Okay."
Lydia stood there awkwardly for a few seconds while she peeled off her gloves and tossed them in a little pedal trash bin. She grabbed the drawing off of the mirror, carefully folding the tape over and out of the way. "So, where are you thinking? Just a warning, I won't go any smaller than this." She gestured to the drawing. "The detail involved would make anything smaller turn into a blob in five years."
Her eyes widened a little. It was much bigger than any of the things in the flash book—almost as big as her hand. And then she remembered why she decided to get a tattoo in the first place. "Fuck it," she said, grabbing the paper and holding it up to her throat. "Put it on my neck." Then she glanced down at the rose tattoo on the back of the other girl's hand and moved the stencil down to match. "Or my hand, maybe?"
"No way."
Lydia scoffed. "What do you mean? What happened to 'the customer's always right'?"
"Have you ever worked in customer service?"
She thought of the million different times she'd lost faith in the human race after a single day working as a waitress. "Fair point. But what's wrong with my neck or my hand?"
"Half of my job is being a friend for people who come in here alone and have no idea what they're doing." Before Lydia could refute that, the stencil was snatched out of her hand. "Right now I'm speaking as your friend, and I am not going to let you get your first tattoo on your neck or your hand."
"And how do you know it's my first tattoo?" She leveled her with a single look. "Alright, fine. In that case, I have no idea."
"How about—" She reached out to grab her shoulders, but stopped just short of putting her hands on her. "May I?"
"Uh, sure."
Her hands were gentle as she rotated her to the side. In the mirror, Lydia watched as she placed the paper on the ball of her shoulder, rotated it a bit, then stepped back. "How about here?"
It was just white printer paper laid on top of her shirt, but somehow she already knew it was perfect. She could see how it would wrap prettily around the ball of her shoulder; how the curves of the design would complement the curves of her anatomy. "I like that."
"You'll be able to cover it up with most shirts whenever you want or need to, but you still get some visibility like you wanted." Lydia tilted her head to the side and shifted around a little to see it from different angles. "But I promise, if you come back to me for your tenth tattoo and still want something on your neck, I'll do it no questions asked."
She rolled her eyes and bit back an almost smile. Maybe the closest she'd gotten to a real one all day. "Deal."
They walked back to the front of the shop, for paperwork apparently, but the sight of the iPad and card reader on the counter stopped her short. "How much?" She wasn't sure she wanted to hear. Getting a tattoo was an irrefutably stupid financial decision. She'd just thrown a pair of shoes she actually needed into the dumpster; she'd just barely be able to replace them. Logically, she didn't have the money. But she also didn't have any more fucks left to give so…
"For that size?" She bent back behind the counter, grabbing a clipboard and a pen. "$150."
Lydia looked at her in disbelief. "That's all?"
For some reason, she refused to meet her eyes. "That's all." She handed over the clipboard with a tight smile. "You fill this out, and I'll go make the real stencil."
They each worked silently for a while. If she'd forgotten that tattoos were serious business, filling out the paperwork definitely reminded her. In addition to the expected things like her name and phone number, they also asked about any allergies she might have, family medical history, and for an emergency contact number. She'd become blind to the smell of rubbing alcohol sometime in the last twenty minutes, but the smell hit her again.
"All done?"
"Uh, yeah." She handed it over along with her ID.
"Just give me one second to put all of this in."
While she tapped away at the iPad, Lydia grabbed one of the other flash books. She couldn't believe how different it was from the first one she looked at. It was all saturated neon colors and characters she vaguely recognized as being from anime. She was flipping through with her jaw hanging open when she heard, "Wait, you're from Valley Center?"
Her head shot up from the book. She was holding Lydia's ID with wide eyes. "Yeah? Don't tell me you've heard of it."
She choked out a disbelieving laugh. "I'm from Rydell."
Now Lydia's jaw really hit the floor. Nearly eleven years in New York, and she'd never met anyone from home. If anyone asked, she'd tell them she was from San Diego—if they were also from Southern California then maybe she'd mention her real hometown, but no one had ever heard of the dying town she grew up in. Population 10,346 and getting smaller every year.
Rydell was a similarly shitty suburb a few miles down the road. In high school, she and her friends used to drive out there occasionally because the guy at their liquor store was famously bad at remembering to card.
"You're lying."
"Why the hell else would I have ever heard of Rydell and Valley Center, California?" They looked at each other, heads shaking incredulously. "Of all the gin joints…"
"I—" She closed the flash book and set it to the side. "Do you think we ever saw each other? Like at football games, or something? Not that I ever voluntarily went to football games, but we did go to RHS for speech competitions sometimes. Or, wait—Did you ever go to one of our dances? One of my friends dated someone from there and then went to your prom senior year."
"No." After a few more taps on the iPad, she filed her paperwork beneath the counter and made her way back over to the waiting area. "We never crossed paths."
"And you're sure about that?"
"Positive."
When she stopped in front of her, Lydia stood up. She expected the other girl to take a step or two back once she realized how close they suddenly were. But she didn't.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Trust me." She looked up with eyes that she now knew were blue-rimmed, but had a halo of golden yellow starbursts around each wide pupil. "I would have seen you. And I would have remembered you."
Unconsciously, Lydia's tongue swiped out to wet her lips. When the other girl's eyes got caught on the motion, her stomach flipped.
"Well," she said, finally backing up a few steps and handing back over the ID. Lydia cleared her throat and stuffed it haphazardly into her bag. "Nice to meet you, Lydia."
She loved the way her name sounded in her mouth.
An inked hand reached out to shake hers, but she didn't take it. "What, you get to know my name and pierce my skin repeatedly with a needle, but I don't get to know yours?"
A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Cynthia."
When she reached out to finally take her hand, she was briefly mesmerized by the way their skin looked next to each other. A strong, tattooed hand wrapping around a thin, bare one. "Nice to meet you, Cynthia." The handshake lingered for a few seconds longer than necessary.
She assumed that the next step would be, you know, getting tattooed, but a few minutes later Cynthia emerged from a back room with a basket of snacks and a selection of drinks; they were frosty as though she'd just pulled them out of the fridge. "First, we eat."
"We do?"
"On your paperwork you said you haven't had a full meal since breakfast."
She shrugged, suddenly defensive. "I had a sugar free Red Bull and a packet of almonds for lunch."
"And that was how many hours ago?"
She tapped the phone that was barely clinging to life in her lap. "Like… ten?"
"Yeah, we're definitely eating first. Grab something salty and something with caffeine." She searched around a little, then grabbed a packet of crackers and a soda. Cynthia grabbed a snack of her own and took the seat next to her. "The salt will replenish electrolytes, the carbs will raise your blood sugar, and the caffeine will increase your blood pressure. Do you have a water bottle with you?"
"Yeah, but it's empty."
She tapped the top of her can a few times, then cracked it open with a sizzle. "Remind me to fill it up for you before we start. You're gonna want it later."
For a minute, there was the squeaking of plastic packaging and the quiet slurping of overflowing soda foam. Once they were settled, Lydia asked, "So, how did you go from Rydell to New York?"
"Art school." Her head tilted back and forth, like she was trying to figure out how to frame whatever came next. "I wasn't the best student, I guess you could say…"
"Mmm," she hummed. "Troublemaker, huh?"
To her delight, Cynthia's cheeks pinked slightly at that. "Just uninterested, mostly. It's hard to do well on math homework when you're drawing all over it." Lydia nodded for her to continue. "But then my art teacher told me about the School of Visual Arts. SVA is a great program, but it doesn't really give a shit about grades—90% of your acceptance is based on your portfolio."
"And your grades weren't that great, but your portfolio was?"
"Good enough for me to get in, at least."
"So, you majored in tattoos?" she asked with mock-seriousness as she picked a cracker out of the bag.
She huffed out a laugh. "Uh—Illustration, actually."
"What exactly does majoring in Illustration look like?"
"I know it sounds like it's all about drawing pictures to go along with children's books, but it's actually way more broad than that. I mean, it can be that if you want it to be, but it's more generally about learning how to tell stories through art."
"So then, how'd you find your way here?"
"Well, I originally wanted to do commercial gallery stuff, but that's not very practical. Only a handful of people make a living that way. After graduation I thought about getting an MFA in Visual Essay, but I was already in enough debt." Lydia hummed in sympathy while she sipped. "Then I thought about Bio Art, but everything has to be so 'correct'—not my thing. And I wouldn't last two minutes as a teacher. But then I met Stan, my boss here, at a friend's gallery opening, and the rest is history."
Lydia pulled one leg up under her so she could face her more fully. She balanced her soda between her leg and the back of the seat, then asked, "Did you start tattooing first, or start getting tattoos first?"
"Technically, I got my first tattoo when I was 12."
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah. It was a stick and poke with my friends under the middle school bleachers." She wiped her hands together quickly to rid them of crumbs, then offered the inside of her wrist. Lydia leaned forward, searching for something imperfect and faded amongst the collage of professional art. Just beneath the heel of her hand, a slightly wonky smiley face looked back at her. It had gone fuzzy and slightly blue with time.
"Oh, I see." She leaned back so she didn't get lost in the rest of the hypnotic, black lines swirling around her skin. "So, you were a troublemaker."
"You caught me," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I was a real badass. I think I was wearing a shirt with a monkey on it at the time."
"A monkey? Really?"
"Yeah—" Her eyes closed like she was trying to picture it. "It was either that, or 'Team Jacob' with a paw print on it."
Lydia bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop the spread of her smile. "Well now I'm grateful that I didn't know you back then. I would have been way too intimidated to approach you. Scared, even."
"Then I guess we're actually lucky that our paths didn't cross until now."
"I guess so."
After a quick, devastating smile, Cynthia crumpled up her trash and held her hand out to take Lydia's. "You ready to do this thing?"
"Sure?"
"Great—love to hear the confidence." She stood and made her way to the trash can, nodding towards the back of the shop. "We're going to be here for a while, so use the restroom now if you need to. I'll finish getting set up."
"Yeah, okay. Oh!" She pulled her water bottle out of her bag and handed it over. "Here's this—thank you."
"Of course." They headed off in separate directions. Just as she was about to open the bathroom door, Cynthia stopped her. "Oh shit, one more thing: Do you want color, or black and gray?"
She stood next to an array of ink bottles. There must have been over fifty in every color under the sun. "Uh…"
"Color is more eye-catching, but black and gray will look better for longer."
Because the original drawing was in black, she'd been picturing it going on just like that. Then she glanced down at Cynthia's monochromatic tattoos. "Black and gray," she answered confidently.
"You got it."
As soon as the bathroom door closed behind her, she went into a frenzy. She ripped several paper towels from the roll hanging by the sink and doused them in water, then started to give herself a little bird bath. There were hours of dance and stress sweat on her skin, and she was about to be in very close proximity to a very attractive person who could simply not see her like that.
A quick glance in the mirror had her holding in a groan. Of course her hair had been a mess this whole time. The full-length mirror she looked in earlier cut her off at the neck, so she had no idea that the day's sweat had curled up the baby hairs she'd spent forever straightening that morning. She dug around in her bag for her brush, then started pulling it quickly through her hair so she could force a nicer ponytail to replace the messy one.
Her disheveled appearance was a stark reminder that when she came stomping through the parlor door a little bit ago, she'd been on the brink. The righteous anger she'd come in with had been dropped since then—the fact that she was about to get a tattoo, and probably also the artist who was going to give it to her, had distracted her enough that she hadn't even noticed when it slipped away.
She put her hair back up, actually used the restroom, and quickly swiped some of her emergency deodorant under both arms. Then, as if she hadn't just furiously freshened up, she calmly walked back out into the shop.
Cynthia was on a little rolling stool, armed again with tight black gloves. Next to her was the chair Lydia would be sitting on; it had been adjusted so she could straddle it and comfortably rest both of her arms. Her water bottle was now full and sitting on a short side table.
"Alright…" She nudged a drawer on her workstation closed with her heel. "Take off your shirt." Lydia froze. It was only for a moment, but Cynthia noticed. "What?" she smirked. "Did you want me to go through the fabric?"
"I guess I just thought we could roll my sleeve up."
She hissed in a breath through her teeth. "No can do, sorry. We'll need a lot more room than that. Plus your shirt isn't sterile—if it slips into where I'm working that could be dangerous. Actually, you should probably pull your bra strap down, too." When Lydia still hesitated, she shrugged. "Most people wear appropriate clothes when they're getting tattooed because most people know they're getting a tattoo before they leave the house in the morning."
"Right, sorry." She set her bag down on the floor and, like ripping off a band-aid, brought her shirt up over her head. Of course she was wearing an old, frayed sports bra that day. It probably still had sweat stains on it from earlier. Wonderful.
She straddled the chair, putting her arm up on the portion of the elbow rest that had been wrapped in cling film. Promptly and professionally, Cynthia washed her arm with a scentless soap, then wiped it clean. She absentmindedly flapped her hand over the area to help it dry before running a cool alcohol pad over it.
When Lydia saw her grab the bottle of green soap with one hand and a disposable razor in the other, she flinched away. "Are… are you about to shave my shoulder hair?"
"Yup," she replied matter-of-factly.
Lydia thought she might disintegrate and fly away. Or maybe just sink directly into the floor; that might be quicker. "That's…" Cynthia motioned for her to get back in position. "That's fucking humiliating."
She laughed as she swiped a palmful of the soap over her skin and started lightly running the razor over it. "No, it's not. I do this every time I give anyone a tattoo on any part of their body."
"Are you sure you're not just saying that to make me feel better?"
"Now, why would I be trying to do that?"
"I don't know. It's honestly fine. After today I have no more dignity anyways, so this is just par for the course."
After she'd been sufficiently shaved, Cynthia applied a thin layer of something that looked and smelled like lotion, but made her skin tacky. When Lydia saw the stencil come out, she tensed up involuntarily. "Relax your arm for me," she said calmly. "Just let it rest naturally." Once she had, she placed the stencil on her shoulder with complete focus. "Get up and tell me how that looks."
She got up to look at it in the mirror. It needed to be higher. "It's good."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"I think it needs to be a little higher."
She let out a relieved breath. "Oh good, me too."
As she wiped off the the first attempt and placed the second, Cynthia said with a smile, "You have to be honest with me. This will be on you forever, so you have to make sure you actually like it before we start. We'll place the stencil a thousand times if we have to."
Luckily, the second placement was perfect. Moving the design up just a few centimeters transformed it from looking like a foreign thing stuck haphazardly onto her skin, to something that belonged there. It was so… pretty. It was feminine, and soft, and somehow delicate despite its size.
Once she was settled back in place and Cynthia had the machine in her hand, things suddenly got very real. "Holy shit." She pressed down on the foot pedal a few times to test it, and a high pitched buzzing rang out. It was much louder than she thought it would be. Her heart took off at a sprint. "Is this gonna hurt?"
She threw her head back in a bright laugh. "Oh, I was waiting for that!"
"Why? Is that a stupid question?"
"No, it's not stupid at all," she assured her. "I always say it's like if someone was scratching at your sunburn with a needle."
"And I'll be feeling that for how long?"
Her head tilted from side to side. "An hour and a half, maybe two hours?"
"Awesome." She gulped before briefly letting her head hang forward. "Isn't there like numbing cream or something?"
"That stuff only works if you put it on way before, and I wouldn't tattoo you if you had."
"Why?" At this point, she was half genuinely curious and half stalling.
"Most of that shit isn't FDA approved, for one thing. Also it works great for the first half hour, but it wears off after that. In my opinion, the rest of the tattoo hurts worse after you've been sitting there not feeling anything. Plus, Stan is old school—he believes that any tattoo worth getting is a tattoo worth sitting through."
"Right. Got it. Okay."
She'd wheeled away a few inches while they were talking, but now she scooted back up close to her. "Let me know if at any point you need a break, or you need to readjust, or anything. Sound good?"
Her heart wasn't just beating fast anymore; it was beating hard. When she looked down, she saw the fabric of her bra jumping with every panicked pulse in her chest. "Can you like… count me down or something?"
"No." And then they were going.
A white hot ribbon cut through her skin. Her first thought was, I can't sit through this for two hours. She had no idea how people got through larger or more intricate tattoos. She even considered tapping out already. No one would notice a lone line on her otherwise bare skin. It would almost be like it never happened. All she knew was that she couldn't do this.
Then Cynthia sat back, taking the needle with her, and the pain stopped.
"Oh."
"How was that?"
When she fell and scraped her knee, or sliced her finger while chopping vegetables, the pain lasted way beyond the initial contact. The surface level injuries continued to sting, and the deeper ones continued to throb, sometimes for hours or even days afterwards; and honestly, that was the worst part. This was different. "Somehow more and also less painful that I thought it would be."
"I hear that a lot," she nodded. "Are you good to continue?"
"I think so."
Lydia spent the next half hour going through a roller coaster of emotions. Now that she understood that the pain was intense, but came in manageable short bursts, she no longer had the fear that she couldn't handle it. Each line was ten, maybe fifteen seconds of pain. By the time she registered the pain, it was already almost done and a quick break was coming. Every second she sat there was a second she'd never have to sit through again.
Then she actually settled into it. Maybe it was the adrenaline kicking in, or maybe she was just getting used to it, but she stopped having to concentrate so hard on not making embarrassing whining sounds. It gave her some time to look around the shop.
The walls were painted a rich, wine red. Although, it barely mattered—nearly every inch of space was covered with framed artwork. Some flash sheets, some black and white photos of tattooed people that looked like they were from the 19th century, and then some abstract artwork splashed across canvases. Local, if she had to guess. Maybe even done by some of the artists in the shop.
She hadn't noticed before, but each station had its own vibe. They were all organized in a unique way, the mirrors all looked like they were from different eras, and the works in progress pinned and taped around couldn't have been more different.
The station right across from hers was all angles. The art immediately surrounding it was geometric—mesmerizing and mathematically perfect. The mirror almost reminded her of the Chrysler Building with its strips of thinner mirrors peaking out of either side like ripples in water. The stickers on the silver chrome workstation included one for Columbia University, and one that said, "Powered by the black women who came before me".
Diagonal to Cynthia's station was by far the simplest of all the workspaces—with it's plain black mirror and drawers void of stickers—but surrounding it were the most incredible tattoos Lydia had ever seen. They looked almost unbelievably real. It would have been incredible enough had they been drawings or paintings, but the fact that they were done on human skin left her gobsmacked.
The station right next to Cynthia's was the perfect opposite. The mirror looked like it had come out of an 80's sci-fi spaceship. All of the art on the wall surrounding it was in strikingly bright neon—the tattoos were almost cartoon like. This person's stickers included characters from Ghibli movies, some little creatures she was almost positive were Pokémon, and the nonbinary flag; all stuck haphazardly to the drawers of the lime green workstation.
With new eyes, she glanced around Cynthia's corner of the shop. Her mirror was vintage-looking—delicate flowers and swirls in brushed gold. On her matte black drawers, she had stickers that forced Lydia to smother a smile. Rosie the Riveter giving the finger, two pairs of scissors interlocking, a screaming opossum, and one that said, "Shut the fuck up, I'm overstimulated".
For each station, she filled in the blanks; imagined the kinds of people who would curate them. Her mind did what it always did—saw stories in everything. She imagined how they looked, how they sounded, what they loved, what they hated. For a while, that was a great distraction.
As the 45-minute mark approached though, she got squirmy.
Cynthia pulled back, swiping a paper towel over her raw skin. She pushed a piece of hair out of her eyes with the inside of her bicep as she said, "You have to breathe."
"I am."
"You're not. You hold your breath when I'm tattooing and then take in gulps of air when I'm not. You're gonna pass out if you keep that up."
"I'm breathing normally!" But then she rolled forward, bracing one hand on her skin to pull it taut, and Lydia felt her entire body tense up. She sucked in a breath and held it still in her chest. Cynthia gave her a look. "Okay, fine. Sorry." The next time the needle came down on her skin, she tried to keep her breathing steady. "At least if I'm unconscious it won't hurt."
"Yeah, but then you don't get the street cred of telling people that you sat through a tattoo."
"Is that why you and your friends decided to risk giving each other sepsis under the bleachers? Street cred?"
"No," she laughed. "I just like art. I wanted some on me."
"When did you start getting tattoos for real?"
"My 18th birthday." She finished up the line she was working on, then pointed at one of the tattoos on her inner bicep. It was, to Lydia's untrained eye, just an old car. It was about palm-sized; its nose nearly reaching the ditch of her elbow. Like all of the art that surrounded it, it was bold, traditional, and black.
"Is there a special significance to it?"
She shrugged and leaned back in to continue. "My dad runs an auto shop," she explained. "I pretty much grew up there."
Quick scenes ran unbidden through her imagination. Little Cynthia waddling around with a wrench that was almost as big as she was. Oversized, grease-stained coveralls pooling at her ankles and wrists. Her having to press up on her tiptoes to see inside of an engine bay.
"What kind of car is it?"
Again she stretched her arm out for Lydia to see. "That is a 1955 Ford Thunderbird." Her tone was heavy with reverence.
"And why that one?"
"I don't really know—I've just always liked it I guess."
She tossed the scrunched up paper towel into the trash can, then grabbed a fresh one. It turned transparent in her hand as she used the wash bottle to saturate it. The feeling of the cool water on her red, angry skin was pure bliss. But then of course, the short surges of pain were back.
"The 50's was such a cool time for cars, you know?" Cynthia continued. "I mean, American factories were making consumer products again for the first time since World War II, and the women who worked in those factories were unionizing and carving a path for the feminist movements that would follow. Then the interstate system was created, and suddenly there was a brand new culture around road trips and driving for leisure. Then this one car comes along that's a bespoke vehicle made of existing parts, so for the first time ever regular people could drive an American-made luxury car, and—"
She cut herself off mid-stride. Realizing how much she'd just said, she snapped her mouth shut. The most gorgeous pink color flooded her cheeks. "Uh, anyways…" she cleared her throat. "I just like it, I guess."
Lydia, now fully leaning forward and propping her chin up on her unoccupied arm, couldn't wipe the smile off of her face. "You're secretly a big nerd."
Even after her little speech, she had the audacity to looked shocked. "Um, rude?"
"No, it's true," she insisted. "You have all of these tattoos, and you look all tough and everything, but actually you're just a dork in a badass suit."
"You know, if I were you I wouldn't be making fun of the person holding the stabbing needle machine."
"Hey, I'm not saying it's a bad thing! But it is a thing."
"And what about it?"
"It's just interesting, that's all. I'm just, you know… filing it away."
They smiled at each other for a few moments before Cynthia got back to work. As the needle came down against her skin, the shock of pain surprised her. She hadn't realized how much their conversation had been helping to manage the discomfort.
"Do you mind if we keep talking? Or do you need silence to concentrate?"
"No," Cynthia said. "We can keep talking. I know talking helps for some people."
She was going in for another line, so Lydia quickly asked, "Have you ever driven one? A Thunderbird?"
"God, no. I wish. I saw a '57 Thunderbird at an auto show once, but that's the closest I ever got. That's on the bucket list for sure. Maybe when I win the lottery one day I'll become an eccentric antique car lady." She rolled a little to the side to get a better angle. "So that's the story of how I chose my first tattoo. What about you? What drew you to this one?"
"To be totally honest, I have no idea. I just liked it. That's probably a bad thing, right? Tattoos should have meaning."
"Mmm," she hummed. "Not in my experience. The only tattoos I regret are the ones that have some big, deep meaning. The ones that I got just because I thought they were cool looking… I still love them just as much as the day I got them."
"But the Thunderbird is an exception."
"Yes—one of the few."
Her phone buzzed in her lap. She waited dutifully until Cynthia was done with the line she was working on, and then quickly grabbed it.
throuple (non-sexual) 💕
Wednesday 11:04 pm
Arthur: Hey, so uh… where the HELL are you?
Floyd: we checked your location and it says you're still in manhattan somewhere?
Arthur: Have you been kidnapped? I will be severely displeased if you've been kidnapped.
Lydia: I'm fine, I'll explain everything tomorrow. Don't wait up
With that, she put her phone on Do Not Disturb and tossed it carelessly on top of her bag with a sigh.
"So," Cynthia started. "Do you want to tell me why you walked in and demanded a tattoo tonight?"
The text from her friends brought her back down to reality and set her teeth on edge—one innocent question was all it took for her to bite back harshly. "What, suddenly you're some kind of armchair psychologist?" As soon as it flew out of her mouth, she wished it hadn't. "Sorry."
"It's fine. And yeah, kinda. Bartenders, nail techs, tattoo artists… Armchair psychology is part of the gig." Lydia had tried being a bartender just out of college, so she knew there was some truth to that. When she didn't offer anything else, Cynthia bumped her elbow against hers and said, "C'mon. You're stuck here with me for at least another hour, so you may as well talk to me. I've already nerded out about vintage cars. Nothing you say could be as embarrassing as that." Lydia scoffed, but she continued. "Please? Tell me your story."
She tilted her head back to look at the exposed, industrial ceiling and let out a sardonic laugh. "That's the thing: I don't need to."
"What do you mean?"
"You've already heard it a million times."
"Try me."
After what she hoped would be a steadying breath, she explained, "Small town girl has big city dreams. She gives up everything to follow them, but by the time she realizes she doesn't have what it takes, she's too proud to slink back home with her tail between her legs. So instead, she becomes one of the millions of failed actors languishing away in the suburbs. Tale as old as time. I mean god, you must hear that at least twice a day working in this neighborhood."
She pulled a dry paper towel firmly across her sore skin; Lydia tried not to wince. "Not gonna lie, I do tend to do more drama masks than the average artist. I think I've done like three or four ghost lights just in the past week."
Somehow, that managed to pull a smile out of her.
"But for the record, I'm sorry things haven't worked out for you."
Their eyes met just briefly enough for her to see the sincerity there. "Thanks."
The minute or two of silence that followed was enough to draw her attention back to how uncomfortable she was. She was just about to ask for a break when Cynthia asked, "You okay? You're breathing funny again."
"Yeah, I'm just getting a little warm."
"Oh, here—" She rolled back and flicked a fan on with her elbow. Lydia shivered as the air moved over her clammy skin. "Sorry."
"No, it's okay. That's better."
"If you want to stop for a water break, we can."
"How close are we to being done?"
Her head tilted as she assessed their progress. "I'd say twenty more minutes. Thirty, max."
"Then let's just keep going." The pain returned a few moments later. Twenty minutes. She could handle twenty more minutes. "You know, I've always liked tattoos."
"What's stopped you from getting one before? No wait, let me guess: 'You don't put a bumper sticker on a Bentley'."
Lydia turned to look at her with a cheeky smile. "So you think I'm a Bentley?" Next to her, Cynthia stiffened for a moment. "Wow, that's quite the compliment coming from a car enthusiast."
"Yep, I walked right into that one."
"But it doesn't seem like you're in a rush to walk back out."
Cynthia's eyes flicked up to meet hers. A split second of those eyes looking up from under her lashes was enough to make her stomach flip. "But, um… Tattoos just aren't practical when you're an actor. They can be covered with makeup obviously, but I've worked with people who have to spend like half an hour covering their tattoos before every show. I've never wanted to bother with it."
"So what changed tonight?"
"Rejection number 1,574."
"Has it seriously been that many?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But that's gotta be close. Four or five auditions a week for seven years? It's somewhere around there."
"What was different about this one?"
"It was somehow worse than the 1,573 that came before it. This one was disrespectful. They—" The thought of it fanned the orange ember of rage that had been sitting quietly in her gut. "It doesn't matter. The point is, me coming in here was reactionary. It's probably stupid to get a tattoo that will always remind me of the day I failed. Again."
She wet another paper towel and swiped it over her tender skin. "Maybe not. There's still time to make today, and this tattoo, memorable for some other reason."
Cynthia was busy switching out the small needle cartridge for a bigger one, so Lydia had a moment to lean down and tap at her phone. "It's 11:28."
"Good, so we've got plenty of time." Her smile was genuine. And small—almost shy. She was so busy being transfixed by it, that Cynthia had to point to her arm to remind her that they still had work to do. "Outline's done. All we have to do now is the shading."
Still mildly distracted, the feeling of the shading cartridge shocked her. "Oh!" It hurt less, for one thing. She assumed that if one needle on its own was painful, several needles at once would be unbearable—but compared to the line work, she thought she could sit through this for hours. What was really strange was how deep the buzz went. It felt like her bones were rattling.
"How is that?"
"Better, I think?"
She saw her wince out of the corner of her eye. "Hate to break it to you, but I doubt you'll feel that way for much longer."
Sure enough, a few minutes later she was back to irregular breathing, curling up her toes in her shoes, and squeezing her eyes shut. The line work was sharp and concentrated; ripping up her skin and leaving it raw. Shading felt like Cynthia was taking rough grit sandpaper to her bloody, sensitive skin.
"We're almost done." Then she took a dry paper towel and dragged it across her much-abused shoulder.
"Holy shit," Lydia choked out. "Can you at least wet that thing?"
She chuckled. "Sorry."
"God, that's worse than the needle."
"Just give me two more seconds…"
"I feel like you've been saying that for an hour."
Finally, she pulled back with hands raised in surrender. "Done."
"Oh, thank god." When a soft, cool towel swept down the red hot skin of her arm, she let out a moan—she was too exhausted to be embarrassed about it.
"Okay, go ahead and take a look." She scrambled over to the mirror as quickly as she could on her shaky legs.
Lydia had been worried that she'd see it and feel like there was something foreign stuck to her; that her first instinct would be to brush it off. But it looked like it belonged there. It just fit. Like it had always been there, and all Cynthia did was bring it to the surface. She twisted around, looking at it from every possible angle.
"You're being disconcertingly quiet."
Lydia watched as a smile stretched across her own face. "I love it."
Cynthia let out a sigh of relief. "Really?"
"Really!"
"Good," she smiled. "I'm glad. Do you want a picture before we wrap it up?"
They snapped quick pictures on both of their phones. She immediately clicked on it to see how it looked without being mirrored. The surrounding skin was tinged pink, but the lines themselves were crisp and steady. She zoomed in to see that what looked like shading from far away was actually bunches of dots at different densities.
"Oh, no…"
Cynthia's head shot up from her own phone. "What?"
"I already want another one. This is about to become a problem."
Her shoulders lowered as she chuckled. "Well I'd suggest letting this one heal first at the very least." She opened one of the drawers behind her and started pulling out gauze and a roll of black bandages. "Can I ask how you're getting home?"
"The train, why?"
She nodded and grabbed another roll. "I'm going to wrap this up more than I normally would because the train is disgusting, but I want you to take the outer layer of bandages off right away when you get home. The under layer and gauze you should keep on for the next 4-6 hours."
Her eyes blew wide. "Four hours?"
"I'm sorry—who walked into a tattoo parlor at 9:00 pm?"
"Yeah, I guess that's what I get," she sighed.
"Look, go home, get a couple hours of sleep, then you can wake up and shower this whole day off of you. Plus all of the plasma that will have settled on your tattoo by that point."
"Plasma?!"
She waved her off and nonchalantly said, "It's all on the aftercare sheet."
Once her shoulder was sufficiently covered and wrapped, she carefully slipped her shirt over her head and they made their way back to the front desk. As she tapped around on the iPad to pay, Cynthia was putting together a sachet of travel-sized soap and lotion bottles so she didn't have to stop by the store on her way home.
"Something that isn't on the aftercare sheet— " she started as she handed the bag over. "Once your adrenaline drops, you might feel a little off. Sad, extra tired, maybe even regret. That's totally normal. Your body will regulate itself after a good night's sleep."
"And if I still regret it in the morning?"
She put her hands on her hips and let out a belabored sigh. "Well, then we can always just cut the arm off."
"Oh, good. At least we have a plan." Just for something to do with her hands, she slipped the aftercare kit into her bag, then hoisted it higher on her shoulder. "I'm sorry I made you stay so late."
"That's okay; I have a short commute," she shrugged. "So, there's a business card in there if you want—or I mean, need something. If there are any problems or whatever. So, that's uh…" She reached up to run her fingers through the hairs at the back of her neck. "You know. There."
Lydia could have watched her stumble over herself awkwardly all night, but she could tell that her body was about to crash. "Okay, thank you." When she headed towards the door, Cynthia followed. After appearing to think about it for a second, she held the door open for her. Compared to the sterile cleanliness of the shop, the smell of New York after a rain was heavy and sour. "Well…"
They stood at the threshold, their transaction very much complete, but still lingering.
"Yeah, um—thank you for coming in."
"Thank you for letting me."
Her ink-painted hands disappeared into her pockets. "So yeah, if you need anything…"
"I'll call." She said it like a promise.
"I look forward to it."
A heat rose to her cheeks. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
She stepped out into the night while she had the chance—another heartbeat and she would have said something else just so they had an excuse to keep talking.
There was a frenetic energy lacing itself around her veins like a vine. It grew and twisted and grew and twisted until she felt delirious. She must have walked by that shop a thousand times, and yet tonight, the cruel stars finally seemed to align in her favor.
With adrenaline at her back pressing her to walk faster faster faster, she was on the train in no time. She took the first seat she saw and reached to investigate the little kit she'd been given. There was Dial Gold soap, unscented lotion, and a small aftercare booklet detailing how she would be caring for her new tattoo. Then, as promised, she found a business card.
It had the shop's logo, address, phone number, and socials—the usual. But on the back, in spidery thin handwriting, was a phone number with a California area code. Lydia leaned back against the seat with a smile as the train lurched to begin her journey home.