Gemotions

The dingy tattoo parlor reeked of antiseptic and something metallic. I sat stiffly on the vinyl chair, my heart hammering against my ribs. Seeing my father’s "Reclamation" drawing on the young man’s bicep was a shock. The man’s name was Leo. Leo was getting his first tattoo.

Leo told the artist he had lost his father a month ago. He wanted something that represented the bond they had. The piece had been a tribute, he'd told the artist. The artist then pointed at me, and said: "You know this artist?"

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to respond: "Yes. He… he was a good man." There was a knot in my throat, threatening to unravel. I missed him. It hurt.

The artist began the ink. The needle buzzed, and I found myself studying Leo's face. He was smiling softly, his eyes closed. A warm rush flooded my body, a wave of both pleasure and pain.