We chit-chat. About everything. Everything that has no weight, that is. Music, weather, travel, how was our day. The flower starts to take shape, and my excitement becoming dense in my stomach like wisps of air grouping together into a patch of fog.
We chit-chat. About everything. Making bad jokes, or finding solace in each other’s rolling eyes at a particularly bad one made by someone else. It’s becoming awkward, the number of times we look at each other. A connection is forming, invisibly, like spider webs in the sunlight.
Time to hop on the chair. I bare my arm, and offer it up in an awkward position. That’s going to hurt later. Not the wound, but the numbness that follows the hours. We joke on the front, while the back of our minds are occupied with preparing for the session.
Time goes by. I bare myself, and offer it up for an awkward position. That’s going to hurt later. Not the scratches and bruises, but the weight born out of a weird situation. We joke on the front, while the back of our minds are occupied with processing the baggage we carry with us.
The needle breaks my skin. Over and over and over again. So fast I can’t see it, but I do feel every poke. They each hurt just a touch, blending together in a stream of pain. Not horrible pain, surprisingly. I’ve chosen a horrible placement for the tattoo, everyone says before, during, and after. But the pain is fine. It’s expected. My arm is going numb. I stretch and massage it every time she turns to refill the ink.
Progress breaks my heart. Over and over and over again. So fast I can’t see it, but I do feel every step. They each hurt just a touch, blending together in a stream of pain. Not horrible pain, surprisingly. I’ve chosen a horrible situation for myself, everyone says before, during, and after. But the pain is fine. It’s expected. My brain is going numb. I stretch and massage it alive every time she’s away.
We’re in the end stages now. Arm is numb, skin is tired and on fire at places. But it’s almost over. Just five more minutes, she says. Then laughs a bit, and says ten. But fifteen at the most. I grin. Partially to clench my teeth, and partially to ease the situation. Hers? Mine? We’re in this together now. I need her to finish the flower. She needs me to hold on until she does.
We’re in the end stages now. Brain is numb, heart is tired and on fire at times. But it’s almost over. Just five more minutes, we say. Then we laugh a bit, and say ten. But fifteen at the most. We grin. Partially to clench our teeth, and partially to ease the situation. Our situation. We’re in this together now. I need her and she needs me.
And it’s done. It still hurts, but it’s beautiful. Does it hurt, because it’s beautiful? Or is it beautiful because it hurts? Who cares.
The pain will go away. The arm will heal, and so will the heart. All we’ll have left is the flower on my skin, beautiful and meaningful forever.
A Lily.
