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| a past which can never again be present |
About a year ago, I remember missing the bus and walking in late for my tattoo appointment. I was nervous; far more so about finding things to talk about with a stranger for 3 hours than of needles puncturing my skin.
Thankfully, the whole process was pretty comfortable, even without a shirt on. Getting a tattoo on your back is pretty tame on the pain scale, and it wasn't until the last 20 shading-over-raw-skin-minutes that I began to wince. My artist, Alex, was a burly dude; young, and, unsurprisingly, covered in ink from head to toe. From the outside, most people would assume he was someone who spent his evenings partyin' hard, whiskey in hand. Turned out he preferred early nights and Shirley Temples (with extra Maraschino's please).
Oh appearances, how often you deceive.
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