The Mad Tatter

  "Thank you," she whispers, smiling. "My parents are throwing me a party to celebrate… or well, what they call a party, anyway. It's happening right now, actually, at the dance studio. I'm supposed to be there, but I came here instead."

  "They're probably worried."

  "My mom knows I'm not coming, and my father… well, he'll be pissed, but it doesn't matter. He wouldn't understand. I don't think he can. He doesn't know what it's like. His entire life was always ballet, and he made my entire life ballet, too. I never chose my own art; I never picked my own path.

  "And you know, he was right… I was born to dance. Dancing to me is like breathing—I don't think I could survive without it. But just because he was right about that, doesn't mean he's right about everything. It doesn't mean he's right about you. Because I love dancing, Reece, but that's not the only thing I love. I love you, too."

  I blink a few times, my brow furrowing when those words strike me. I think for sure I must have heard her wrong until a squeal echoes from the receptionist's desk, followed by a forced cough.

  "Sorry," Ellie calls out. "Something caught in my throat."

  I shoot her a glare before turning back to Avery, unsure of how to respond. "Look, I—"

  Once more, she holds up her hand to stop me from talking. "I do, okay? I know you think you're all wrong for me, but I don't care, because there's so much about you that's right. I love how serious you take art, even when it's something stupid, like tattooing Johnny's name in a banner over a damn heart. And I love how much being a good father means to you, how much you love your daughter. Hell, I love your daughter, too."

  I stare at her, dumbfounded. "You love her?"

  "How can I not?" she says. "She's a miniature you. Everything I love about you is in her. And I love that me loving her had more of an impact on you than me loving you. You said I was special, Reece, but you are, too, even if you don't see it. There's so much about you… the look you get on your face when you're concentrating; how you get all weirdly poetic when you get upset; how you always cook pancakes when it's so much easier just to pour cereal in a bowl, but you do it out of love, and I love it. I love it all."

  Those words wash through me as I slump against the arm of the couch, crossing my arms over my chest. "You love me."

  "I do," she says.

  "That's what you came here to say?"

  "Yes." She pauses. "Well, no. I also came here to tell you that I know."

  "You know."

  It's not a question.

  Maybe it's the look in her eyes, but somehow I know exactly what she knows. She knows me. All of me.

  "Hatter," she says quietly. "Guess it's short for Hatfield. I thought it was because of the, uh... the moniker."

  "It was a bit of both," I say.

  She stares at me, frowning. "Why didn't you tell me? Didn't you think I'd understand?"

  "There was no point," I say. "I'm not that person anymore."

  "But you are. You're him. Looking at you, I can see it."

  "See what? That I'm a convicted felon? That I live in one of the worst neighborhoods in Manhattan? I can't drive, or vote, or even leave the fucking state. You put me down on paper, Avery, and you'll see I have nothing to offer. My pages do nothing but ruin your book."

  "You're wrong," she says. "Maybe people judge books by their covers, like you said, but I don't care, because I happen to like graffiti. It's art… real art… the kind that comes from the soul. And if they miss out on the story because of that, because they can't see it, then that's their loss and not mine. And besides, books are nothing more than paper and ink, anyway. They're like, dead trees all covered in tattoos, and I happen to think that's beautiful."

  I laugh at that as I stand up straight. "So that's why you came here? To tell me you know who I am?"

  "Yes." Her voice is suddenly small. "And to get a tattoo, if you'll still do it."

  I contemplate that. "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why do you want a tattoo?"

  She pauses, and I stare at her, awaiting her answer. She never wanted one before, and I'm not going to ink her if she's only doing this for a reason to be here.

  "Because," she says quietly, "I want something that's me, and I know where to find it now."

  "Where?"

  "With you." She looks at me, expression guarded. "You said you'd help me find it, and you did. I want what's in you."

  I'm not sure exactly what to make of those words. The cynical part of me wants to call bullshit, to send her out the door, back to the Upper Westside where she belongs with her family, but there's still that other part of me that wonders... does she really belong there?

  She fit into my life with such ease. She's never been like the others. The only person standing here who has judged, and ridiculed, and condemned me, is... well... me. I did it to myself.

  A few seconds pass before I nod down the hall, toward my workspace. "After you, I guess."

  Avery hesitates, like she expected me to reject her, and ducks her head shyly as she marches past me. A small smile flickers upon my lips, drowned out quickly by a noise from the receptionist's desk. "Psst! Reece! Psst!"

  I don't look that way, turning to leave the lobby as I mutter, "Mind your own business, Eleanor."

  Avery stands just inside the room, wringing her hands together. She looks nervous, just as most other first timers do when they find themselves here with me, ready to face the needle.

  I stride past her, plopping down on my stool as I motion toward the tattoo chair. "Have a seat."

  It's positioned down as far as it will go, spread out flat like a cushioned table. Avery slides up on it, her feet still touching the floor. I wheel my stool close to her, our knees brushing together. "What do you want?"

  "Whatever you give me."

  A chill rolls through me at those words. The pleasure of creative freedom, of being able to do anything I dream, to possess and alter any way I see fit, is second only to the thrill of her being my canvas. Her body is her art, her skin and bones and muscles from head-to-toe the way she expresses herself, and here she is, offering it all to me, offering to let me mark her in a way nobody has ever marked her before.

  That's what I wanted the very first time I saw her… to be the one to leave the permanent mark. I just didn't realize the mark she left on me would run even deeper. She's offering me her body, when she has already altered my soul.

  "Are you sure about that?" I ask quietly, seriously. "I need you to be certain."

  "I am."

  "Because tattoos are forever," I continue. "You can try to remove them, but they'll always leave some kind of mark behind. You don't want to wake up tomorrow with regrets."

  "I'm sure," she says. "I want you to leave your mark on me."

  I slowly scan her. "Where do you want it?"

  "Anywhere you want to stick it."

  My eyes meet hers, curious if she realizes how that sounds, and see the small smirk lifting the corner of her lips. Shaking my head, I chuckle and stand up. "You're a brave soul, Aphrodite, putting your faith in a man like me. I could tattoo a penis on your left ass cheek, for all you know."

  "I trust you," she says. "You'll only give me what you truly think I need."

  Smart woman.

  Brave as fuck, almost to the point of stupidity. Almost. But she makes up for it in confidence, because she knows I wouldn't do anything to harm her.

  "What the lady wants, the lady gets," I say, motioning toward my box of cassette tapes. "Pick your music and we'll get started."

  "Oh no," she says, shaking her head. "It's your art, remember? You pick it."

  Huh. I pull the box of cassettes out and shift through them, snatching one toward the bottom—one nobody, in all my years of tattooing, has ever picked. It has no case, the words worn off the clear plastic cassette. Nobody has ever even asked me what's on the seemingly blank tape, no one curious enough to take a chance on it.

  Music tells me a lot about people, and the fact that nobody
ever inquired about it told me none of them were willing to take a blind risk. They follow logic, choosing rationally. But where is the curiosity? Where is the intuition? Where is following your heart instead of your head?

  I put the tape in the boombox and press play. The methodic sound of electronica music echoes through the room, drums merging with synthesizers and keyboards, the occasional orchestra instrument mixing in. I walk over and quietly close the door, giving the two of us some privacy, before setting to work. I prepare my station, pulling out a wide array of ink, just in case I need it.

  I walk around behind her, my hand slowly reaching for her, but I pause when my fingertips just graze the skin of her back.

  She shivers at the sensation.

  "Do you mind?" I ask, running my fingers beneath the fabric of her dress as it dips along her side, exposing her back.

  "Go ahead," she says. "I don't think you can tattoo without touching me."

  True, but I still feel the need to ask permission. I slip my hands beneath the fabric, pushing the dress forward and down her arms. She helps, slipping her arms out of the holes, exposing the top half of her as the fabric falls to her lap.

  "Lay down on your stomach," I say softly. "This way maybe your tits won't distract me."

  Avery laughs, blushing, and lays down on the table, situating herself. The dress barely covers any of her body, riding up along her thighs. I finish getting her ready and retake my seat on my stool, shifting it closer as I raise it up some, and grab a pair of black gloves to slip them on.

  "This is going to hurt," I warn her. "It'll feel like little scratches at first, and there might be some burning and sharp stings, but I'll be as gentle as possible."

  "It'll be worth it," she says, resting her head on her arms as she gazes at me. "Besides, I have a pretty high pain tolerance."

  Despite her words, I see her body tense when I turn on the tattoo machine, the monotonous buzzing filling the air, mixing with the music. Reaching over, I slowly rub her back to get her to relax. I stare at her, letting the music wash through me, trying to conjure up some inspiration and imagine something good enough to eternally be inked onto her perfect skin.

  Once she seems at ease, I dab the needle in the black ink and press it to the center of her back. She inhales sharply, gritting her teeth as the needle penetrates the top layer of skin. I glance at her, making sure she's okay, before focusing all of my attention on my work.

  I lose myself easily, slipping into a trance as the beat of the music burrows beneath my armored skin. It pumps through my bloodstream, fueling me on and setting my rhythm. I freehand the curved black lines on her back, along her spine, just between her sculpted shoulder blades. I ink randomly, erratically, the collective jumble of strokes and marks coming together to form a sleek abstract figure.

  I switch the needles out, giving her a brief reprieve as I flip the tape over and start the music again. My eyes drift to hers as I smile softly. "You okay?"

  "Yes," she whispers. "Are you done now?"

  I chuckle. "Not even close."

  She returns my smile as I settle back on my stool to delve into the colors. I work fluidly then, shadowing and shading, the pink, green, blue, white, and purple bleeding together. The colors blur around the edges, coming together as they run past the pre-marked lines. Her skin is irritated, screaming at me angrily by the time I finish, but I've never been so damn proud of a piece of art before.

  It reminds me of a time, a time long ago, when I stood across the street from a certain dance studio, watching as they discovered the art I spray-painted from the door to the windows.

  I wipe the tattoo, washing the excess ink away and soothing her skin the best I can right now as I admire it. A tinge of nervousness bubbles up inside of me.

  If she hates it, we're both fucked.

  I flip off the machine, the buzzing dying. Pushing my stool back, I motion toward the mirror. "Tell me what you think... honestly."

  Avery climbs to her feet, her dress falling to her ankles when she lets go of it, propriety be damn. She steps right out of it, discarding it on the floor, and heads straight for the mirror. I hold my breath as she turns around, peering over her shoulder at her reflection.

  An abstract ballerina, swaddled in color, messy but graceful, like a watercolor portrait of her.

  Seconds pass, strained seconds of silence as she stares at the tattoo, before she whispers the words, "it's beautiful."

  I stand up, pulling my gloves off and discarding them as I approach her. "You think so?"

  "I do." Her eyes bore into the mirror, studying her image. "I love it, Reece."

  Pausing in front of her, I gently place my hand on her hip before leaning down and lightly kissing the crook of her neck. "And I love you."

  Avery turns to me quickly. "What?"

  "You heard me," I say. "I didn't set out to, but along the way it happened. I fell in love with you, and I don't know what to do about it."

  "What do you want to do about it?" she asks, trying to contain the grin that threatens to split her face.

  "Considering the fact that you're standing in front of me, damn near naked? I'd say what I want to do about it puts that night in the dance studio to shame." I lean closer, my lips near her ear. "I'd throw you down on that table right now and fuck you so hard the bartender across the street would hear you scream."

  Her breath hitches. "What's stopping you?"

  "It would be slightly unprofessional to fuck up your brand new tattoo."

  She laughs as she grabs her dress to cover herself, the mention of her tattoo once more drawing her attention to it in the mirror. I have to give her some credit—she most certainly has a high pain tolerance. She shows little discomfort at the moment, despite the fact that it has to feel raw, tight and sore like sunburn.

  "How do I take care of it?" she asks. "I don't want ruin it."

  "Keep it moisturized but let it breathe," I say. "I recommend something like A&D ointment the first forty-eight hours, then switch to a fragrance-free plain lotion after that."

  She reaches her arm behind her, flinching for the first time this afternoon, her fingertips skimming the edges of it. "I can't reach all of it."

  "Huh, and here I remember you being quite bendy."

  "I'm flexible, yeah, but I'm not a contortionist."

  "I can help, uh… rub you down," I say as I lean back against the tattoo table. "What are you doing this weekend?"

  "Uh, I don't know," she says, her brow furrowing as she redresses. "It's weird, but for the first time in my life, I have nothing to do. I have nothing scheduled. I have no plan… and not just for the weekend. Forever. I always assumed I would join a ballet company, but I just... I don't know. I have a B.F.A. from Juilliard, and I have no idea what to do with it."

  "What do you want to do?"

  "I'm not sure," she says, contemplating that for a moment as she laughs. "Nobody's ever asked me that before. I've never even had to think about it. What now?"

  What now? It's a damn good question; one I remember asking myself long ago. I still haven't quite figured it out so many years later.

  "Well, I can't answer that," I say, "but I might be able to help you with the more immediate future. Lexie and I are heading to Jersey this weekend to the dinosaur park for a sleepover, if you're interested."

  "A sleepover? At a dinosaur park?"

  "Yep. A whole night of sleeping under the stars, Jurassic Park style. Tents, sleeping bags, campfires, robotic dinosaurs… it doesn't get much better than that."

  "Sounds fun," she says. "I'm in… that is, if Lexie's okay with it. It's been a while since I saw her. She might not want me there."

  "Are you kidding me?" I say. "You like her dinosaurs. That kind of friendship transcends time, Aphrodite. That's the shit that makes best friends forever."

  She smiles widely. "I'll pack a bag."

  "Sounds great."

  "So, uh, how much for the Hatfield original?"

  I shake my head. "No charge." br />
  "But—"

  "Don't worry about it," I say. "It was my pleasure."

  "You're sure? It's beautiful, Reece. It's worth a lot."

  "Positive," I say, reaching over and cupping her chin. "Besides, I did nothing but add some character. You were already a masterpiece."

  She smiles, sheepishly, as I lean down and lightly kiss her lips, again and again.

  "So what are you doing now?" she whispers between pecks.

  "Kissing you."

  "Well, I know it won't be nearly as much fun as this, but how would you like to go to a party with me?"

  I kiss her once more before pulling back completely. "A party?"

  She nods. "You don't have to. I just thought—"

  "Are you kidding me?" I cut her off, putting my arm around her. "It's a Moore party. There will probably be cupcakes and ice cream and bouncy houses galore. I wouldn't miss that shit for the world."

  I lounge back on the couch, haphazardly flipping through channels on the television, not paying much attention to any of it. It's the middle of the afternoon, and the bright summer sunshine streams through the living room windows, splashing the wooden floor with patches of golden glow that dance around as Lexie pulls on the curtain. Her attention is focused outside, so fixated on the busy Manhattan street that she hasn't even noticed I've turned off her cartoons.

  "What time is it, Daddy?"

  I don't even look at the clock. "About two minutes later than the last time you asked."

  She twirls around the curtain, not paying attention to it, and winds it so tight around her she nearly bows the rod. "What about now?"

  "Same," I answer. "Just add another thirty seconds."

  She's quiet for a few minutes, moving from the window to the next one. "What time is it now, Daddy?"

  "About five minutes later, give or take."

  "Give or take what?"

  "A minute or so."

  "How much does that make?"

  "Uh, about a quarter after."

  She stomps her foot, glaring at me. "That's too much math!"

  I laugh, glancing at the clock. "It's one-seventeen."

  "Thank you." She emphasizes the words, like she's had to pull teeth to get the answer out of me. Turning back to the window, she hits the curtain, twirling it around her arm, as she surveys the neighborhood. "Oh, she's here! Daddy! Daddy! She's here!"