Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“I want the opposite of delicate,” Samson says.
What is the opposite of delicate? I flip toward the back of the book and come across tattoos that seem like they would be more up Samson’s alley than mine, but none of them seem like something he would like. When I get to the last page, I close the book and try to focus.
Delicate to me means dainty, soft, fragile. So, the opposite would be what? Strength? Durability? Maybe even threatening?
I know immediately after that thought what he should get. I open my phone and search for pictures of hurricanes. I scroll through several before I find one I think he would love.
“I found one I think you should get.”
Samson doesn’t even look up from his book when he says, “Okay.” He continues scrolling while he flips his left arm over and says, “I want it right here.” He points at a spot on the upper inside of his forearm. “Go show it to the guy so he can start getting it ready.”
“You don’t want to see it first?”
Samson’s eyes slide over to mine. “Do you think I’ll love it?”
I nod. “I do.”
“Then it’s the tattoo I want.” He’s so matter-of-fact about it, like there’s no question at all that this tattoo is more about me than anything else. I can’t help but kiss him.
There are two tattoo artists working tonight, and even though we’re both getting a tattoo, I still haven’t found what I want. Samson is in the chair, the tattoo gun pressed to his arm. His head is tilted away from it so that he doesn’t see it before it’s finished.
He’s scrolling through his phone, trying to help me find something.
“What about a sunrise?” he asks.
That’s not a bad idea, so I look through a few. I ultimately decide against it. “That seems like it would take a lot of ink and would look better if it were bigger. I want to start small.”
I’ve flipped through every book they have. I’m starting to think my father was right. Maybe I have to give this more thought.
“I have an idea,” Samson says. “We should look up meanings and see what kind of symbols they correlate to.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want it to symbolize?” he asks.
“Maybe something that means luck. I could use some better luck in my life.”
He starts scrolling through his phone while I go to check the progress of his tattoo. Even though I chose a hurricane for him, it’s not with typical black ink. I chose a tattoo that resembles what it would look like on a radar screen, with reds, yellows, blues and greens. It’s not necessarily a watercolor tattoo, but the colors all swirled together against faded black edges sort of make it look that way.
It’s turning out even better than I hoped.
“Found yours,” Samson says. He goes to hand me his phone so I can see what he picked out for me, but I don’t take it.
“I trust you,” I say. It’s only fair.
“You shouldn’t.”
His expression after he says that sends a swirl of unease through me. He’s right. I shouldn’t trust someone I hardly know anything about. I was just agreeing to let him do what I’m doing—choosing his tattoo blindly. But I feel like between the two of us, I’m oddly the more trustworthy one. I grab his phone to look at it. “What is it?”
“A pinwheel.”
I look at the photo. It’s delicate. Colorful. And he doesn’t even know I’ve chosen a hurricane for him, so we would both have tattoos that resemble a pattern of rotation.
“It says pinwheels are supposed to turn around bad luck.”
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
Sara and Marcos have been outside since we filled out the paperwork for the tattoos, which was a good two and a half hours ago, but they haven’t come inside to complain about the wait. I’m sure they’ve found something to keep themselves occupied.
My tattoo is finished. It’s perfect. He lined the outside with a thin line of black ink and then filled it with color, but the colors bleed outside of the lines like dripping paint. I got it on my left wrist. I showed Samson and then took a picture before I let the guy cover it up with a bandage.
Samson’s tattoo artist wipes his down one final time. Samson hasn’t peeked once. “All done,” the guy says.
Samson sits up in the chair without looking down at the tattoo. He stands up and walks to the bathroom, then summons me to follow him with a nod.
He wants to look at it with no one else around. I don’t blame him. He might hate it and that wouldn’t just make me feel bad, it would make the tattoo artist feel bad.
I walk into the bathroom with him and close the door behind me. It’s a small bathroom, so we’re standing really close together. “Are you nervous?”