Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the tattoo parlor, a relentless percussion that matched the gentle thump of my own heart. I sat, perfectly still, on the worn vinyl chair, the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee filling my nostrils. The artist, a burly man with ink-stained hands, gestured towards a photograph taped to the wall. It was one of my linocuts, "The Whispering Woods."

He explained the client wanted it exactly, the same size, in black and grey. I felt a peculiar detachment, as if watching a scene unfold from a great distance. My hand, when I raised it to examine the drawing, felt heavy, leaden.

"Sure," I heard myself say, the word a mere breath. A long moment of silence followed, the only sound the drumming of the rain. "Do you… have any questions?" the artist prompted. I shook my head, my throat tight, and he began to prepare.