47

Aldo pulled into the flower shop’s parking lot and gave himself a minute to watch her through the window as she worked her way down the closing checklist. She was wearing navy blue shorts and a cute little white blouse that still looked fresh and crisp even after a day of work. She was a breath of fresh air on a muggy summer day.

Gloria came out of the front door carrying a cheery bouquet of flowers in a sunshine-yellow vase. He grinned. She was taking the flowers home with her. He watched her juggle the flowers and dig for her keys in the depths of her bag.

Aldo slid out from behind the wheel and approached. “Nice flowers,” he said, taking them from her and freeing her hands.

“Thanks and thanks,” Gloria said, shooting him a shy smile. “What are you doing lurking in the parking lot?”

“I thought if I was cute enough while I lurked, you’d say yes to dinner tonight.”

She gave him the once-over. “Well, you are pretty cute,” she admitted. “But I already have plans.”

“Can I be part of those plans, or would it be weird?” he pressed.

She studied him, debating. “Hmm.”

“Is that a good hmm or a bad hmm?”

She tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “Fine. You can come with me,” Gloria decided. She stopped him with a point of her finger. “But you don’t get to have an opinion."

“An opinion on what?” Aldo asked, immediately intrigued.

“You’ll see.”

He put her and the flowers in his truck and let her direct him across town to a little storefront with a few neon signs in the window.

“A tattoo parlor?” he asked. Okay, this was a surprise.

“No opinion,” she reminded him, unfastening her seatbelt.

“How about questions? Can I ask questions? What are you getting? Where are you getting it?” They got out of the truck and headed for the front door.

“You’ll see,” she said again, primly.

He held the door for her, and she brushed past him into a small, artsy space. Aldo had enough ink done over the years to be a good judge of tattoo parlors. This shop was new to him but clean, bright. There were red vinyl armchairs arranged in an L on the black and white checkered floor of the waiting room. Instead of a TV on the wall, there was a bookcase stacked with worn paperbacks and magazines.

The guy behind the counter was tattooed from neck to wrist, but his t-shirt was fresh, his hair cut.

“Gloria,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Hi, Curtis,” Gloria said, shaking his hand. “This is my friend, Aldo. Aldo, this is Curtis.”

“Nice place,” Aldo told him.