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Andreas

I've kept a solemn promise to myself for the future: never, under any circumstance, place your faith on a tattooist who cannot arrive to his sessions on time if he's going to be colouring your lady's skin.

"What do you mean you're coming in half an hour. The session was assigned for"—I glance at the clock above the fridge―"fifteen minutes ago."

"Relax, mate. I'm on my―"

"My lady is fucking waiting. I'm going to―" Seb sneaks up behind me and snatches the phone from my hand, disrupting the completion of what was going to be a very civil threat.

He presses it to his ear and speaks through to the tattooist. "Ethan, sorry. My friend Andreas here," he holds my shoulder, "is in an unfriendly mood today. Take your time. His lady is most certainly not waiting to get her tattoo."

"That's beyond your knowledge."

He ignores me and walks over to the island, taking a seat beside Blake who's poking at the contents of an ash tray with the tip of a burnt-out cigarette. "Of course. I'll make sure to remind him of that. Goodbye." He drops my phone onto the counter and sighs at me. "He said that he can desist from beginning sessions if clients seem liable to behave violently."

Blake sniggers and pulls out another cigarette, and I shoot him a hateful glare.

"When will you ever realize that speaking to people with all your angry bullshit won't get you what you want?" He flicks his lighter and holds it to the end of his cigarette.

"When they realize that 5:30pm doesn't equate to 6:30 fucking pm." I tramp over to the opposite counter and snatch my shake―thirty grams of protein, full cream milk, chocolate flavoured―and guzzle it until I see the bottom of the cup. In one loud, unrestrained motion, I bring it down until it thuds on the countertop and residue slings from inside and splatters on the wall. "Shit!"

"Stop being a doofus," Seb snaps. I watch him with bitter intent as I move to the other side and grab a damp cloth from the lip of the sink. Just before I turn away and start my clean up, I catch Blake's lip twitch through a cloud of smoke. Why does everyone find my irritation so amusing?

"You know," Seb drawls from behind me, "she might say no. Then you'll have no choice but to send Ethan back home."

I wipe the wall harder, scrubbing a non-existent smudge. "She's going to say yes."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"You don't." I hurl the cloth to the wall, a streak of substance leaving a wet mark in its wake. I gesture towards it. "Do you reckon painting our walls grey would be suitable?"

"You're unbelievable."

With Seb's assumption and the now-dirty patch on the wall, I begin on the dishes to extinguish some of the emotional fire that's blazed in the past few minutes. I choose not to snap at them as they leave the kitchen laughing.

A stack of plates with crumbs, mugs with wet clumps of coffee stuck at the base, utensils rested below a surface of water because the sink is clogged, bowls overturned between the clutter―I plunge my sponge into a metal basin of soap water and clean it all, setting the dishes into a drying rack then slumping with my damp hands hanging over the sink.

I expel a load of air and let my attention on a gold-glassed diffuser slowly fade with the growing void that drags me away, my vision becoming the blurry scenery of a kitchen. My mind is urging me to consider too many distant thoughts―a complication coming from my uncertainty on us.

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