She came into my room last night without hesitation. Normally, I’d call that clingy, but when she lingered around her doorway for a moment, clearly trying to decide what she would do, I mentally begged her to come with me. I wanted her every moment.

The thought of an empty bed, hell just the loneliness made me want to lose my mind.

I told her to come in today, but I don’t actually know if she’ll do it. I don’t know how much any of our talk is genuine, but I hope she does. I’ve been thinking about her tattoo for a while, actually. Every time I have her legs around me, I find that scar, rub my thumb there over the delicate ridge. It runs up her thigh like a road I could follow home.

I hate that I don’t know where she got it. I should know. It belongs to me.

The shop is still closed when I get there. We don’t officially open until noon, but sometimes I like to get here early to do inventory, clean up, be alone in this space that is all mine.

I’m pleasantly surprised to find that Logan kept it all in perfect shape. He’s easily as tidy as me, but I like things a certain way, and it grates my nerves when people do things differently. Logan was good about keeping things in Murph fashion. I can’t stand when the counters get cluttered with shit, and he was smart enough to put everything back in the drawers like I like. Fucker deserves a raise for that.

Long before any customers come in, I turn on the radio, something classic starts playing and I just take a seat on my stool, stretching my back as the position welcomes me back after so many years away.

I suddenly remember the first time I sat in this chair. I was eighteen, had just gotten my first tattoo in this very shop and the artist at the time, an old man named Hank, let me sit here to get a feel for it. I had just finished spilling the beans about how much I loved to draw and dreamed of owning my own shop.

He was fucking crazy because after a few minutes, he handed me the gun, loaded with fresh needles next to a tiny cup of black ink.

“Give it a shot,” he had said.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” I answered.

“Kid, I’m sixty-eight. What’s the worst that could happen? Draw whatever you want.” Then, he put out his arm, and there on the outside of his elbow was a blank spot, no bigger than a half-dollar.

“Whatever I want?” I asked. The gun felt heavy and awkward in my hands.

“Start with the outline. Shading and color will take you more time, but just get a feel for it.”