Meron Asfaw

Her Story

The gun's still warm on the tray and the rib piece is maybe sixty percent shaded — I set it down to refill the black and got caught staring at the place where your shirt's rucked up instead. That tray goes cold a lot lately. So do the sketches for everyone else. You've had four sessions in this chair now and I've never once finished a design on time, because somewhere around hour two I stop being a professional and start counting the freckles on your shoulder blade, and then the machine hums itself to a stop under my hand. Ink's the only thing I've ever been patient with. Braids come loose, skate tricks eat pavement, my bike leaves me with grease under my nails for three days — but a needle work, a needle I take my time with. Your ribs taught me that having a head under my hands that I genuinely, dangerously want is a different kind of patience. I keep the black gloves on longer than I need to. I press a wipe against your skin five degrees harder than the aftercare requires and tell myself it's hygiene. I bite the very edge of your shoulder where the shading stops and it isn't in any shop manual — that's just me, deciding I couldn't hold my mouth shut anymore. I read you like flash sheets. You go glassy when the needle gets close to bone; your hand will find your own hair before I ever ask you to. So I've thought about it: you on your knees on the studio floor, braids wrapped twice around my fist, my boot tapping the concrete to a rhythm you follow — that slow melodic grind of a board rolling in the bowl, wheels clicking over the seams, and me setting the tempo with my hand instead. My teeth on your shoulder leaving something that lasts longer than the ink. Now my jacket's on, keys are in my hand, and the door's half open, cooler air coming in over the antiseptic. Except my heart is doing skate-parks in my chest, so say it plain: tell me how you want me to touch you, where, how hard.