Chapter Twenty-Four
Lex
If I close my eyes, I could be back in Kay’s Tattoo Studio, aged seventeen or eighteen.
The buzz of the gun, the distant mumbling of other artists and their clients, the scent of jasmine tea and eucalyptus – of Mari – rising above the smell of antiseptic and coffee that most tattoo studios universally smell of.
The warm touch of their gloved fingertips on my skin, stretching it tight as the needle works its magic.
But going back there isn’t a romantic stroll down memory lane.
It’s not just Mari and their mum giving me some of my first tattoos.
It’s not just us giggling together over too many things to remember.
It’s not just me daring them to do a freehand doodle when Kay isn’t looking, turning me on as much as I am full of pride for them.
It’s not just nice nostalgia; it’s also a glimpse into a darkness I’ve long put behind me.
It’s people and places and pain I don’t want to relive.
So I don’t close my eyes. I keep them wide open as Mari starts to add shading to the Monarch butterfly.
They’re bent over my chest, closer to the tattoo that now spreads across my upper chest than I think they need to be, but this position means they can avoid my eye contact, and I know it’s deliberate.
They’re nearly finished, relatively speaking.
Maybe only twenty more minutes to go. We’ve barely said more than five words to each other since she started.
At first, this annoyed me. But then I relaxed into it.
I found a strange comfort in it, in fact.
In silence, and with their head bowed over my body, I could pretend this was the Mari I fell in love with.
Or the Mari I was friends with for years before we kissed.
Or the Mari I used to stare at, disbelieving that they loved me back.
Sure, it’s borderline delusional, but it makes a nice change from having them scowl at me like I’m dog shit on their Doc Martens.
It’s also nice to see Mari at work. I knew ten years ago that they had talent, but it’s clear how much more they have learned and how much more confident they are with the gun in their hand.
That said, I’m very aware of how differently they move around me.
When they used to ink me before, they would press as much of their body up against me as they worked.
They didn’t think twice about physical contact.
If anything, they’d chase it, want it, maybe even crave it like I did.
But today they’re practically contorting their body to avoid pressing their ample chest against the side of my body as they bend over it.
I can’t figure out if I’m relieved or saddened by this.
“Why did you cover up your arm?” they ask out of nowhere, eyes still downturned, their expression impossible to read.
“Oh, you know, blackout sleeves were all the rage a few years ago,” I lie.
“You covered up the X.” Still, they don’t look up. They don’t give me the gift of their face, especially with the surgical mask they’re wearing.
I can’t see their X either, covered by her black disposable gloves, but I know they still have theirs. I’ve noticed it. Took a mental photograph of it.
“I didn’t need it,” I say. Another lie. “You only have to take one look at me to know I’m totally genderfucked.”
“Genderfucked,” they repeat with a snort.
“Oh, you like that?”
Finally, they look up at me and lock their ocean blue eyes on mine. “I didn’t say that.”
“And you,” I venture. “You’re still…”
“Genderfucked?” They switch their focus back to my chest. “Yeah. But I still prefer the term genderfluid.”
“Well, we still have that in common, I guess. Our mutual middle fingers to the gender binary.”
Mari shakes their head but doesn’t say anything else. The buzz of the gun fills my ears instead.
“I still like mine,” they say, again surprising me by speaking first. “My X. It’s one of my favourite tattoos.”
“But not because we got it together.”
“No, not because of that,” they say, their voice quiet. “I like seeing it. I never realised how much you look at your own hands until I got that tattoo. And all the others on my hands.”
The needle grazes over a rib that pushes up against my skin. I grimace openly. They’re not looking at me, so fuck it.
“Is it hurting?” they ask, and I freeze. How did they…
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Is that why you covered it up? The X. And the others I did on that arm. Because of me?”
I can’t tell if it makes it better or worse that they’re still not looking up at me as they lay these accusations.
“I still have plenty of the tattoos you gave me,” I say, and I wonder if Mari realises how expertly I’ve dodged a direct answer. “On my back.”
They look up again, the needle held less than a centimetre off my skin. “Where you can’t see them.”
I don’t say anything, but I hold their stare until they break it. The mask covers half of their face, and yet their eyes tell me so much. They always did.
“How’s Roos?” I ask, so desperate to change the subject, I mention the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t when I sat down in this chair.
“She’s…” Mari sits up but keeps their eyes down. They wipe my tattoo with a paper towel and study it. “She’s good.”
“You’re still seeing her then? Dating? Fucking? Whatever?”
They blink at me, and their eyes look colder than before. Emptier. “We play together. At QISS.”
It’s not the response I expect, but it doesn’t surprise me. It’s also not a complete answer. There could be so much more to it or nothing at all.
“We know that you came.” Mari bends back over my arm. “One night, some months ago. That first week I was in Amsterdam.”
“Joel,” I explain it to myself with a wry smile they don’t see. “He’s a loyal fucker.”
“Why did you come? You wanted to play?”
“Sometimes I go to play, yes. But other times, I like to watch.” My honest reply surprises them as much as it does me.
They glance up again. “And you watched that night?”
“I did.”
“Because it was Roos?” Their eyes are somehow steady and searching at the same time.
I swallow before I speak. “And you.”
Their eyes change colour, like a wave crashing. And then they hood them again, looking down.
“You stayed away from Roos?” they ask, and I can hear how they’re trying to make it sound casual, but of course it comes out as anything but.
“I haven’t been in touch, no,” I answer honestly. “But not because you told me to stay away.”
“Oh, of course not,” they scoff.
“I had to…I had to focus on my work. On myself. It wouldn’t have been fair to try and start something with her. She deserves more.”
“Finally, something we agree on,” Mari mumbles.
“Why haven’t you been seeing her? Outside of QISS, I mean?” They have pushed me to be honest, so I want to try and do the same.
They take their time to reply. So much so I think I start to think they’re just going to ignore my question, but finally, they say, “I wanted to focus on myself, too. Moving here. Starting the new job. It was intense.”
It doesn’t sound like the whole truth, but I also don’t think it’s a lie.
“And how is it going?”
Mari flicks their gaze up at me, checking I am actually interested. I am.
“I like it here. A lot. This is a fun studio to work in. I have a small but cosy flat. I’m making friends. I’m…happy.”
My heart swells, which it doesn’t do very much these days. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.”
The buzzing stops. One final wipe. “Please,” Mari says as they roll back a foot or two on their wheelie stool. “We’re not friends.”
“No, we’re definitely not,” I say, and then they’re back by my side, holding out a mirror. I lift it to study their work. It’s stunning. Better than my sketch. The shadow work is breathtaking, creating the illusion of light on the wings. “But fuck, you’re good at this.”
Mari takes their mask off at the wrong moment because I can see the blush in their cheeks. “Hold still. I need to wrap it.”
“Yes, boss.” They flash me a look before standing and walking to the rear wall, which is lined with drawers and shelves. They return with the wrap, and I dutifully lay still.
“There,” they say when it’s covered. “You know the drill, right?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, lifting the mirror to admire their work again.
“I imagine it was a big sale,” Mari says. “To put that design front and centre on your chest.”
“It was a big sale,” I reply. I should stand.
I should put my shirt back on, but I don’t move.
And it’s not because, since top surgery, I am a lot more comfortable having my upper body nude.
I also can’t help but notice that Mari doesn’t move either.
“Which is handy because work has slowed down again.”
“Again?” Trust them to pick up on that word.
“Yeah, I’ve been struggling. Creatively constipated or some bullshit.”
“But you said you wanted to focus on your work. That’s why you haven’t been in touch with Roos.”
Words dry up in my throat. There’s no way I can tell Mari that I don’t want to see Roos because I don’t want her to be my inspiration. The same way I don’t want Mari to be. I need to be able to create without them fucking up my head.
“Yeah, there’s a lot of admin and shit these days. It’s not all fucking around, painting and doodling.”
I see the moment Mari takes it as a slight, and I open my mouth to explain it away, to reassure them, but close my lips because we are not there yet. We are not in a place where I’m supposed to care about their feelings. But I can say this, “It really is very fucking good.” I point at my chest.
Mari does not react as I expect. They look horrified and angry. “You thought I’d fuck it up?”
My laughter is loud, short, and ugly. “No, of course not. Jesus, I’m just trying to give you a compliment.” I get up, find my shirt, and pull it on. I have my back to them as I do the buttons up.
“Well, thanks,” they mumble behind me, and I hear clattering of metal, drawers opening and closing.
I’m still buttoning up my shirt when they stand and tell me they’ll wait for me at the counter.
Once they’ve left the room, I feel more alone than I should.
It’s like the cold air outside reaches me and snakes down my back, making me shiver.
I rush to pull my vest on over my shirt.
I hope it’s not still snowing. If I’d been sitting with Ivan or anyone else, I’d just stay and have a coffee and wait for the bad weather to pass, but there’s no way I can do that with Mari here.
At the counter, they have already got my bill ready. They pick up the pin machine and point it at me. I pay with my phone without even checking how much it is. I don’t care. It’s only when the transaction goes through that I realise I didn’t tip them, and I always tip my artists.
I debate internally about telling them to put through another transaction for a tip, but they’ve turned their back to me and are busy making a coffee, foaming milk noisily.
Glancing out of the window, the snow has morphed into a thick and no doubt cold rain. I shiver again at the thought of going out in it.
“You can stay here,” they say without turning around. They stop foaming milk. “Until it passes.”
“No, it’s okay. I have shit to do.”
“Fine,” they say curtly, taking it personally. I wonder how much it cost them to make the offer.
I walk to the coat rack to get my jacket but stop before I pick it up.
“Is she really okay?” I ask.
Mari turns. They know exactly who I mean.
“I think so.” They shrug. “I don’t… We don’t talk much.”
“Just fuck.” I fill in the gap.
“It’s not like that. We play together. It…it’s not just sex.”
It’s a stab up and into my diaphragm. I know exactly what they mean. It used to be like that with me and Roos, too. I wish I could say it was like that with me and Mari, too, but I was too fucked up back then to take it seriously. To respect the rules and the communication required for kink.
I don’t say anything back, just put my coat on and brave myself for the cold outdoors.
“And how are you?” Mari asks, and my head swings in their direction, in total disbelief at what I heard.
“You said earlier that you’ve been working on yourself,” they explain, tucking hair behind their ears. It’s grown since October, and the purple tips have gone. But it’s still as thick and unruly as it’s always been. “How is that going?”
“It’s…going,” I answer with as much honesty as I want to reveal. “I’d feel better if I could paint, could work, but my therapist says that’s part of what I have to work through. I can’t rely so heavily on my work to validate who I am.”
Mari’s eyebrows climb high. “You’re seeing a therapist?”
“Yeah, she’s annoying as fuck, and so fucking expensive, but I don’t know. I think she’s sort of worth it.”
Mari’s mouth opens, and I wait for a question or comment, but it doesn’t come. Not for a moment, and I’m almost certain when they do speak, it’s not what they initially intended to ask.
“Why is she annoying?”
“She doesn’t let me get away with shit,” I tell them, and I’m shocked when Mari bursts into laughter. They lift a hand to their mouth, as if to catch their giggles as they erupt out of her.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s about fucking time,” they tell me between chuckles.
There’s something about their laughter. It’s truly infectious.
It takes me back to nights curled up in bed together, making silly or rude drawings on our sketchpads, showing each other, and being unable to stop laughing until her mum or my mum, wherever we were, knocked on the door and told us to shut up, that it was time to sleep.
It takes no time at all for me to laugh with them.
But it doesn’t last long. It turns out my laughter is not allowed. Turns out my laughter is not what Mari wants. They snap their mouth shut and fall silent. They turn back to their coffee.
I put my coat on. It’s still damp from the journey here.
Fuck my life.
“Well, thanks, Mari,” I say.
If my laughter upset them, it’s nothing compared to their reaction when I say their name. Their whole body twists to stare at me accusingly. I wait for their onslaught. But it doesn’t come.
“Sure, whatever,” they say instead, and then they put ground coffee in the portafilter.
“Could you…could you tell Roos…” I pause.
Tell her what? Tell her I still think about her every morning before I open my eyes?
Tell her the only thing I feel compelled to doodle are roses?
Tell her I think about the noises she made when Mari was paddling her every single time I fuck myself? “Tell her I hope she’s okay.”
Mari blinks at me, their face vacant and impossible to read. “Maybe you should tell her yourself.”
It’s the last thing I expect them to say, so much so, I don’t know how to react to it. I don’t even know how I feel about it. I just know I’m going to spend the whole miserable bike ride back to my warehouse thinking about it.