Chapter 3
THREE
BENJI
NOW
Sorry I'm late. I needed to change my bag of shit, is what I should say to the man giving me a look that could kill as I enter the tattoo studio.
That's what I should say if I was being honest. But I have it on very good authority that when it comes to poop-related stories, not many people want honesty.
Something tells me this man is no different.
He doesn't want to hear how I'm still getting used to my colostomy bag and it still takes me longer than I expect to change it. He definitely doesn't want to hear about how, even after three weeks, I’m still freaked out by the fact I have a hole in my stomach and that I still don’t really trust myself not to shit my pants like I have a few too many times before in my life.
So instead, I say, “Sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start.”
He glances at my brand-new electric golf and when his eyes are on me I actually wish I'd told him the truth. Even pity would be better than this death stare.
A death stare that isn't unattractive. That probably has more to do with his warm, tawny brown skin, his big, dark brown eyes and the unbearably cool hairstyle he boasts.
The shaved sides of his head look freshly cut and the explosion of tight black curls on top of his head has me wondering just how soft they are.
Not to mention all his tattoos and facial piercings.
I find myself longing to get a bit closer and study the art on his arms, wondering how much more of his thick body does it cover.
Putain, I'm so touch-deprived. And sex-deprived. But I guess that's what happens when you spend the last year of your life as your mother's full-time carer in a tiny village where the average age is 57, and absolutely nobody is queer.
Apart from this guy, apparently. His black T-shirt is blazoned with the words Fat and Queer. Get Over It, and it makes me smile. A smile that disappears when he finally replies.
“I should make you rearrange the appointment,” he tells me.
“Dion,” the other person in the room says in a warning tone. They have a masc appearance but with very femme make-up which is making me think I'll lean towards them being a they/them unless I'm told otherwise.
It seems their tone is effective, as the man, Dion, stands up from his stool behind the counter and says, “Fine. You're here now so I guess we'll do this.”
He sounds like he's about to have a root canal, not give me a tattoo, which I'm assuming he may enjoy doing considering his arms are covered in ink, and you know, the fact he works in a tattoo studio.
The other person gives him a big, warm smile and then levels me with a slightly smaller, and possibly sympathetic one.
“I'll lock up behind me so you can go straight upstairs,” they say, and then they're gone.
As they click the door lock in place, I look back to find Dion giving me a thorough once-over, from the scuffed toes of my work trainers to the shoulders of my Adidas sweatshirt.
I've come straight from parents’ evening at the school and I've never been more grateful that as PE teacher I get to wear tracksuits all day, every day.
There's no way I could do these 12-hour days in a suit.
Especially with a colostomy bag that I'm still getting used to dressing with.
“This way,” Dion says, still yet to crack a smile or any expression that isn't that of sucking on a slice of lemon.
I follow him past the glass partition wall behind the counter that reveals a seating area and a couple of doors.
As he leads me through the furthest door, I take full advantage of looking him up and down.
At least half a foot shorter than me, he's a plump man with a solidity to his frame that feels imposing and a little intimidating. Or maybe I’m just envious.
I've always wanted to be bigger, fuller, fatter.
I can see how his jeans are black, ripped in several places and they hang off his wide hips in a way I could never achieve.
This man is cool. And that's without even looking at his heavy, black boots that have an array of silver buckles, spikes and studs.
I'm half-scared of what those boots could do to someone if they really pissed him off.
Once inside a brightly lit room that features mostly white decor — floors, walls, cupboards and shelves — Dion gestures to the reclining chair in the middle of the room.
I sit and look around me as Dion moves out of my line of sight, and I hear the clattering and shuffling of items behind me.
It all feels very clinical, which I did not expect.
It's my first tattoo and part of me expected a dark room, a burly man with wonky sailor tattoos and a lot of pain.
Even if the tattoo artist isn't my biggest fan, I'm pleasantly surprised by the experience at Kay's Tattoo Studio so far.
“So what are we doing?” Dion rolls into view on a stool.
He has black gloves on and is still looking at me like I’m a cockroach he can’t get rid of.
I hate that I find it eerily attractive.
Not that it's unusual for me to be attracted to somebody who thinks more of dog shit on their shoe.
In fact, it's kind of my bisexual origin story.
“Right, yes.” I snap my attention back to the present moment and slip my hand into my pocket.
I find the folded letter that is heavily creased and soft to the touch on account of carrying it with me everywhere and how many times I've opened it to read the words.
That's the whole point of this tattoo. I can have the words with me always, so I can preserve the letter before it falls apart.
I open the piece of paper and hand it over. It's a letter from my mother and I want the last line tattooed on my forearm. My right forearm. Not the Maman. The bit before.
Dion is staring down at the letter far more intently than I expect.
“I want that line there. Is that okay, or is her handwriting too difficult for you?” I point to the line.
“No, we can do it. It's fine. I just need to scan it and then I can make a carbon copy we can use.”
Only half of what he just said makes sense, but I nod. “Oh, right. Great.”
Dion rolls away again and there are more noises behind me I can only partially decipher.
Clicking of a computer mouse, whirring of a scanner, the rumbling of a printer, and then some more metallic clattering and other clicks and ticks.
The last click fills the room with music.
It's upbeat disco-esque music I don't recognise but I like it instantly.
Of course this painfully cool man is going to have impeccable taste in music.
When Dion returns he has an oblong-shaped piece of white paper in one hand and a razor in another. He pauses at my right side, looking at me but not in my eyes.
“I'll need you to take off your jumper to do this.”
“Shit, yeah. Of course,” I say, feeling like a prized idiot. I lean forward and lift my sweater over my head. It's only when I'm settling back into the chair that I realise the outline of my bag is now visible through my T-shirt. But if Dion sees it, he doesn't say anything as he looks at my arm.
“So where exactly do you want it?” His tone still isn't particularly warm but his voice has a husky softness to it that I like.
“Er, here.” I point to my inner arm, using my finger to indicate a line where I want the text to go.
“Okay. I'll need to shave you.”
“Oh really? Sorry I didn't know, it's my first tattoo.”
That pulls Dion’s eyes to mine, and they instantly warm me. Big, brown and framed by dark curled lashes. I look away from them so I can actually listen when he speaks. “Oh. How are you with needles?”
“Well, they're not my favourite thing in the world,” I say and then cringe at my pathetic attempt at humour. “But I'm okay with them.”
Probably best I don't explain just how many times I've been poked and prodded myself and then how many times I witnessed my mother getting the same treatment in the last year.
He makes a quick grunting noise and then sets about shaving my skin. A minute or so later and he's applied the carbon image of my mother's handwriting.
toujours mon amour.
I smile at it as my eyes get warm and wet.
“You happy with the placement?” he asks.
I don't look up. I don't want him to see the tears in my eyes. Which is pointless because he must hear them in my voice when I say, “It's perfect.”
“You okay?”
“Sorry.” I sniff and brave eye contact. His dark brown eyes are even bigger than I first thought and I’m close enough to see there are flecks of gold in them. “My mother ... she passed away, just over a month ago.”
I brace myself for the condolences and the shaky attempts at comfort that I've endured again and again for the last few weeks, but it doesn't come. Instead, Dion’s mouth falls open, his eyes seem to widen still and he swallows so hard I see his throat work.
“Your maman,” he says in little more than a whisper. and I blink at him in shock.
He clears his throat and the gestures to my mother's writing on my arm. “Your mother, she was French I assume?”
Of course, he had the letter in his hand. You don't even need to speak the language to recognise how she signed off the letter.
“Yeah, my maman,” I confirm.
“I'm very sorry to hear that,” he says, holding my gaze again and there's something about his tone that has me thinking he really means it, and that somehow, inexplicably counts for something.
“Thank you,” I say with a gravelly voice.
He wipes a glove-covered hand over my mother's writing on my arm. Even through the latex I feel warmth, and embarrassingly, goose bumps rise in his path.
“Let's give you a piece of her you can keep forever,” he says, and, fuck me, if that isn't the most perfect thing anybody has said to me since the worst day of my life.