thick ink

My thighs stuck to the vinyl covered chair, jaw clenching against excitement and anticipation.

The artist wrapped a gloved hand around my arm and studied the fresh canvas I presented—bare skin reserved for him.

He sprayed a tonic on my eager flesh, a clear liquid that smelled like mint and took the anxious heat from my pores. With almost sensual gentleness, he wiped it away.

I watched him load the gun and felt my heart flutter when he fired it—the metallic hum filling my ears like a swarm of mechanical locusts.

Then I felt it.

The burn of the needle penetrating my pores, loading that once bland organ with his art. This physical discomfort comforted me as I relaxed into the pain, vibrations ricocheting against the bones beneath the black-lined manifestation flowing from his fingers and around my arm.

I closed my eyes and huffed the aroma of ink and friction and flesh. When it was over, I fought back tears. I didn't want it to end.

But now there was significance etched into me—a woman who felt so insignificant.