#5
I went by my parents’ house today to pick up some old art supplies. It was just some expired stuff, but I remembered a gold ink that I had, and wanted to see if the manufacturer still makes it with the same ingredients. Tattooing is an art, and there are technological innovations in my space, as there are in any industry. The formulation of newer, non-toxic inks is a big step forward, and I’m at the edge of that curve.
But first and foremost, I consider myself an artist. Graphic novels used to be my thing, and I tried my hand at cartoons. They were great, but it didn’t have the intense connection a tattoo artist has with his or her customer. Then, when I got my first tattoo at fifteen, my addiction was born. Not only did I begin to indulge in body art, but I also began to learn the craft. Now, I work at High Voltage Tattoo, a downtown shop with a devoted clientele and hardcore reputation. It works for me. The tough, gritty exterior is a mask for the incredible artistry that goes on inside.
But today, I’m having difficulty focusing. I went home this weekend to pick up some stuff, and got sidetracked. Not by my sister, Patty, but by her friend, Zoe. Normally this would be no big deal because Zoe’s been coming around for years. She and Patty are practically bonded at the hip, but I never paid her much mind.
Last weekend was different though because little Zoe is all grown up now. Shit. I almost didn’t recognize her, but when she opened her mouth and said hello, my heart dropped and something else started hardening because where did this woman come from? Zoe is no longer a shy, skinny child with freckles and carroty-brown hair. Instead, she’s a voluptuous woman with creamy skin, big breasts, and chestnut curls waving down her back.
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