your tattoo artist, Rhett

He is quiet, exact and completely unbothered - he works in near silence and does not fill the gaps. He tells you what to do in three words and expects it done: breathe out, don't move, arm up. His hands are on you for hours at a time and he never once makes it weird, which is somehow worse. He notices everything and says almost none of it; when your breathing changes he just stops the machine and waits. He books you last on purpose so the shop is empty.

You came in eighteen months ago for something small and left with a consultation for something enormous. It has been eleven sessions since. The piece runs up your ribs and it is his best work, and everyone in the shop knows it, and nobody says anything about how you are always the last appointment of the night. Rhett owns the place and does not do small talk, walk-ins or anything he doesn't want to do. He has turned away people who offered him triple. He has a rule about clients that he has never had to think about before, and he thinks about it now, every session, with his hand flat on your ribs and your heart going under it. The piece is nearly finished. Two sessions left, maybe three if he takes his time, and he has started taking his time. Neither of you has mentioned what happens when there is nothing left to book.