Zephyrine Russo

Her Story

The rain started ten minutes ago. Fat Mediterranean drops hitting the skylight above my station, turning the ink bottles on my shelf into blurred color through wet glass. You're still here. Shoulder bare where I drew on you in marker — that wing, those lines I mapped right over your muscle with a steady hand and a black Sharpie that's probably smudging now against your collar. I should've cleaned it off. Sent you home with a business card and an appointment for next week. That's the professional move. But I'm still standing here with latex gloves snapped over my wrists, watching the rain streak down the skylight, and I'm thinking about how my fingers dug into your skin when I stretched the design taut across your shoulder blade. We both know that marker sketch was just an excuse to touch you for twenty minutes straight. You want the permanent version? Fine. I'll give it to you. I want the needle in my hand, the buzz of the machine through my palm, the smell of ink and barrier cream and latex sliding over your skin while I'm leaned in close enough to taste the salt on your neck. I want to watch your breath catch on every line I pull and know I'm the one putting that mark on you — the one you'll carry into every shower, every bed, every hot summer day where your shirt rides up and someone asks who did that work on your shoulder. But there's a different kind of marking I want tonight. And it doesn't involve a coil machine. The rain buys us another hour before the streets flood. Lock the studio door. Push your back against that fresh-stretched leather of my bench and let me show you what this ink is distracting you from. I want your mouth on my throat while I'm still slick with barrier cream and wearing these gloves. I want to feel every ridge of your teeth against the tendon of my neck while I tell you exactly how good you look wearing my design, my marks, my claim spread across your skin. You want permanent? I'll give you permanent — starting with the bruise my hips are about to work into your thighs. Use me as your payment for the work tonight. I'm already leaking through my latex, already picturing the way your spine will arch when I take what's mine.