A Year of Stories (Collection Two)

Flesh and Ink and Beating Hearts

"So, you're The Artist?"

"Hm?"

"It's a simple question, are you The Artist or not? Tell me."

"Listen man, I've got a long day ahead of me. If you want to act like a prick, take it outside."

"Look... I'm sorry, I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Don't we all."

"Really...I'm...sorry, you have to believe me."

"I don't have to do anything..."

"Ple..."

"Just ... stop it. Listen, I'll let it slide this time as long you promise to at least pretend like I'm a human being, OK?"

"I... Thank you."

"You can thank me by telling me what you're here for."

"I need to know if you're The Artist that everyone is talking about."

"Whose everyone and what are they saying?"

"Please...just tell me, it's important."

"No need to start crying. Yea, you're in the right place. My name is Tessa, and I'm 'The Artist,' how can I help you?"

"My name is Arnold, and I need a tattoo."

I've been a tattoo artist for most of my adult life. They say that no one is born wanting to paint pretty pictures of people's skin, but I think I might have been. For as long as I can remember, it's all I ever wanted to do.

But art alone never really did it for me – canvas is too static, sculpture is too rigid, and don't even get me started on computers. I've tried and tried and tried, but it always comes back to the same thing – flesh and ink and beating hearts.

"Are you sure? You don't look the sort, a bit too buttoned down..."

"What does the sort of person who gets a tattoo from you look like?"

"Aging hippies, trust fund hipsters, new agey types – the usual crowd. If you've ever tried to purge your liver of toxins with an enema, you've probably thought of walking through my door."

"I take it you're not a believer."

"Are you?"

"No. I try to only believe in things I can see with my eyes."