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Elena’s doing a little dance in the middle of the shop, and it’s giving me a headache, but also warming me up inside so I feel like the Grinch whose heart has expanded three times too fast with it getting crushed against my ribs.
“What do you call that? Dancing?!” I call as I finish up one of my drawings, one of the sketches I’ve been working on for one of Russia’s friends, Alex—the one who came to me explaining about his son and the health issues he was born with.
It was a bad day yesterday, the kind that constantly made my throat close up on the verge of tears, thinking about the love the guy has for his kid, where he told me, a stranger (easier than it should be most of the time) about his hopes and fears, wanting to hold on to his son while getting a tattoo of his tiny feet.
***
“DO YOU THINK THAT’S sick? That I want his feet tattooed on my body when I’m not sure if he’s going to live or not?” Alex asked me and his dark brown eyes had glittered with unshed tears. It was even more heartbreaking when his voice cracked, and he rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to keep himself together.
I didn’t know what to do, should I have held him tight, even if we don’t know each other, give him platitudes?
I gave him the answer he wanted, the answer that he needed. “I think it’s beautiful that you want to freeze a moment in time, his tiny feet on your skin forever. I’ve done a few of those tattoos since I’ve worked here. I can do that for you, Alex, I can do that for you. Can you get me a print of his footprints? Send it to my email?”
I blindly searched for a business card, handed it over to him, a picture of my face on the business card with my business email right there.
“But again, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can’t give you the right answer. I just know I can do it for you, but you have to show up.”
Alex had nodded, had breathed deeply through his nose, and had scratched at his trimmed beard, ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. I noticed the wrinkles around his eyes, bracketing his mouth, as if he’d been holding back tears since the kid was born two months ago, still in the NICU at the Montreal Children’s Hospital.
***
I CAN’T EVEN IMAGINE the worry the guy is going through, but I hope giving him what he wants will provide him a small, tiny measure of comfort.
So I’m drawing up the feet, trying to provide Alex some options with how big he wants them to be, trying to keep the scaling right by eye alone.
“Let’s go grab something to eat, yeah? I’m starving. I want hot dogs. And poutine. So much poutine. I want the cheese pulls to end all cheese pulls.” Elena’s voice jars me from trying to scale the feet, deciding to make another couple of versions, wishing I got a better look at Alex’s arm to figure out what would look best and where.
I flick up my head towards Elena, keeping my eyes pinned to the drawing, finishing up the shading of the little feetsies, wondering if I’m going to have to end up writing the birth and death dates underneath, lifting my pencil off the sketch, not even wanting to jinx it.
Life isn’t fair most of the time, but some of the time it sucks, and it sucks hard.
For now, I can’t do anything but sate my hunger.
I pin my hair back, a not-so-corkscrew curl getting loose from my bun at the top of my head, and scratch at my undercut.
I flick my finger over my upper helix piercings, letting the jewelry tinkle against one another.
“Almost done!” I yell, finishing up the drawing and stowing it in a folder, my hands smudging the pencil a little, getting on the curl of my hand. I go to my small locker where I keep my paperwork, along with my coat, my boots, on top of my giant bag that’s big enough to hold the sketchpad I always have on me, and the small pencil case where I keep my drawings pencils.
“Oh,” I say, stamping my feet so they’re super comfortable in my boots, almost tripping on the carpet runner we’ve set up from the entrance door that runs all the way up to the reception desk, like every (potential) client coming in would feel like they’re walking on the red carpet.
“Hi, Russia,” I say, waving a hello, freezing for a second since I’m pretty sure, pretty sure that we weren’t scheduled for an appointment today, and I’m currently off the clock.
“We didn’t have an appointment today, did we? Or is there something wrong with your tattoo?” I ask, thinking back to his previous tattoo of the Nordic compass, how nicely that one’s healing up as it’s kept moisturized and hydrated, especially during the cold-as-hell winter months.
Russia waves back, that smile still hovering around his mouth, not sure if it’s going to be a sneer, a snicker, or a genuine, soft and warm smile that I want pressed up against my own mouth, for reasons.
That has to be my favorite moment in movies, the moment where the couple is kissing and pressing their smiles against one another.
It looks awesome, and I miss having that, don’t know if I ever had that. My high school boyfriend lasted a couple of months before he got a scholarship to the States and I never saw him again, and while I was heartbroken, yeah, it wasn’t that all-encompassing kinda love that I see that Elena has, falling head over heels over with Beckett.
“No, no, I actually just came by...I don’t live too far from here, actually.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the wet pavement of the stairs and sidewalk outside of the shop.
I can see through the window that the snow is swirling in that snow-globe kind of way that looks pretty from in here where it’s nice and warm. Russia looks like a painting, a still-life, his dark coat dotted with white snowflakes, his cheeks pink against his pale skin, his blue eyes practically glowing.
Did he have to be in love with somebody else? And why won’t this crush die?
I nod at him to continue, while Elena glances between the both of us in the kind of way that annoying friend of yours did back in high school, making it super obvious that you’re talking to your crush, and your crush knows it, too, when all of this was meant to be kept a secret. “We’re just about to go get something to eat, actually. You’re more than welcome to join,” Elena pipes up, stepping into Russia’s line of vision, forcing him to make eye contact with her, pulling his attention away from me.
Was he looking at me that intently? Was he?
Nah, no way.
Right?! Right?!
I glance at her, and she looks at me, and I swear we’re having a telepathic conversation where I yell at her for forcing the guy to come with us and not giving me a chance to know why he showed up (in a professional capacity, of course).
I definitely don’t hear Elena yelling at me from her own head that apparently based on this sole reason Russia apparently likes me and he showed up for no reason, no reason at all, other than to see me.
Why else come see your tattoo artist if there’s nothing wrong with your current tattoo and you aren’t currently getting tattooed?
Why else, why else?
“Do you guys do that a lot?” Russia asks, pointing between Elena and me.
“Rude,” I say. “You don’t just point out a nonverbal communication, Russia. But yeah, you hungry?” I ignore the rapid beat of my heart, and the burn in my cheeks is actually because I’m burning up from being wrapped up in my winter coat that’s supposed to combat forty-below Canadian winters, and for that reason alone.
Russia nods, his glance moving from Elena to me.
Elena’s already leading the way out of the shop.
I call out to Bekah, manning the desk all by her lonesome in the evening, asking last-minute if she wants something to eat. She’s eighteen years old, manning the reception desk, and learning payroll from Jake, her older cousin, and they both wave us off.
I salute my boss and leave the shop, heading up the semi-icy stairs to get to street level, finding Russia and Elena waiting for me.
We head to Lafleur’s where you get the best steamed hot dogs in Montreal, and we each give our orders. Elena and I decide to share ten steamies and a giant poutine with the greasiest of fries I can’t wait to devour.
Elena always balks when I put mayo and ketchup on my hot dogs, so I always make sure to eat it extra gross, hoping to put her off her food and steal some of her steamies, but my plan doesn’t work.
Elena sits next to me, Russia across from us in the weirdest third-wheel date I’ve ever been on, Russia clearly being the outsider.
The funny thing is? He takes his hot dogs the same way I do.
See? It’s destined, fated!
Oh, shut up.
“I thought Sophie was the only one who eats them like that,” Elena says, looking queasy. She clearly doesn’t mind having onion breath with her hot dogs loaded with them, coleslaw slathered on top, and that nearly puts me off my food. There shouldn’t be that many green things on a hot dog, it’s a crime against nature, honestly.
Russia polishes off his four hot dogs while slowly picking at his single fry, the grease dotting the paper bag it’s in, slurping up his orange Crush, like we’re little kids again, getting the most sugary soft drinks available to us at the time. My teeth ache just remembering the taste alone.
I munch happily on my food, and Russia keeps staring at me, flickers of glances that I don’t catch all the way.
Elena is the bridge of the conversation, both Russia and I merely passing on top of it, connected only through my best friend babbling her way out of everything. It helps that she knows Russia’s friends by virtue of being Katie’s younger cousin and being outside of the family circle enough that Katie would want to hang out outside of birthdays and the holidays, friends and all.
“Yeah, I saw Sera and her son the other day,” Elena says, and Russia nods, his face closed off, his eyes downcast and on his food instead of on either of us.
It’s not hard to see that he’s closed himself off, put himself behind an invisible wall that we can see through, yeah, but can’t reach him behind it.
Even the way he eats becomes stilted, his jaw clenching underneath that glorious beard, the white strands tucked into the corner of his mouth.
“Matty, right? He’s usually not around when we all hang out,” Elena continues, and I just stop eating altogether.
I already knew that Sera is married and has her kid; I already knew that. But being confronted with that knowledge while sitting opposite Russia is another thing altogether.
Russia nods again. “Yeah, Matty, that’s his name. He’s almost nine now or should be.” His eyes flicker over to me, the blue-blue roving over my face as if looking for something, the most important piece to the puzzle, the very last one, only to realize it’s gone and disappeared.
I blink at him, waiting for him to talk, to say something, but it’s not like I’m expecting him to lay out his heart here in the middle of a restaurant that has sticky vinyl seats but the best hot dogs in the world, hands down.
Russia doesn’t need to explain anything to me.
I’m only the tattoo artist. Still just a passing acquaintance, even if I know some things about him now in the way that people babble to strangers, especially when they’re in physical pain.
“He’s super cute,” Elena says, bridging the gap again, connecting two distant points that Russia and I are pinned to. “And Sera looked good. She was taking him to school, so I didn’t get a chance to talk with her much. She lives in our building, Sophie.”
Of course. Of course she lives in our building. Montreal has almost two million people, and Sera just happens to live in the same building that I do.
Russia nods along, clearing his throat as if he wants to move the conversation along, talk about something else, anything else, but Elena doesn’t get the memo.
“Ah, shit, sorry, Sophie, can you move? I wanna take this call,” Elena says, pushing on my arm and shoulder while I almost choke around my hot dog, which is stupid funny to me since hot dogs are a choking hazard anyway. Ha.
“Is it Beckett?” I say around my mouthful, forcing myself to eat since I’m hungry, covering up my mouth and teeth in case I’ve got a mixture of mayo and ketchup all over my face, and I don’t need to look to know that it’s incredibly unattractive.
“It’s Beckett. I know it’s Beckett. Look at your eyeballs.”
“How am I supposed to look at my own eyeballs?” Elena asks, grinning down at her phone and swiping her thumb across the screen. “Hello? Hey! Just give me a second, okay?” Elena swivels her phone so her voice isn’t pitched against it directly, and glares at me. “You better move.”
“Or what? Hi, Beckett!” I yell, and I can hear the “hi, Sophie” from her phone, making me grin. I slide my ass out of the vinyl booth, watching Elena head towards the bathrooms, talking into the phone all the while.
I take my seat again, feeling the silence press down on my shoulders, on the top of my head, while I try to continue eating, all while having Russia seemingly hewn out of marble or stone, whichever one is more beautiful, because obviously.
Talk about something, anything, Soph!
“Hey, Russia?” I ask, swallowing down my food, wiping my mouth with the swath of napkins I stole from the dispenser. I don’t make eye contact as I stab my fork into the poutine, getting the most epic cheese pull even though Elena’s not around to witness it and will call me out as a cheater because she didn’t see it with her own two eyes.
He looks at me, waiting for the question, and even though the silence stretches between us it doesn’t feel as awkward as it did a second ago, doesn’t make my skin itch and burn with the need to insert any sort of word vomit.
“Why did you come to the shop today?”
Russia’s eyes flutter closed for a second, and then he looks at me, really looks at me, in the way I haven’t been looked at in a long time by a man, as if I’m truly being seen, underneath all the piercings, the hair, and the tattoos. I’m just Sophie.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, like I’ve done in the past, but maybe I’m not.
Maybe I’m not.
Russia clears his throat, coughs into his fist, looks at me, his face almost serene if I had to put a word to it. “I’m glad that you’re the one tattooing me, inking my skin,” he says, his voice a little thicker now, the accent just that bit stronger. “Thank you, for treating Alex the way you did.”
I shrug, shoulders hiking up to my ears. “Ah, well, he seems like a really nice person. And I can’t wait to do his tattoo, honestly. It’s going to make him feel better, and I’m happy to be a part of that.” I nod, more to myself than anything else.
“I would like to thank you somehow, if I could,” he stares at me, licks his lips.
I wipe at my mouth again, frowning at the remnants of foundation that have come off my skin. Long-wear foundation, my ass.
“You’re already paying me for my time while I do your tattoo. And you brought me a new client. Trust me, that’s enough.” More than enough. I get to see you every week for two hours at a time. It’s more than enough, Russia.
“And you get the pleasure of my company, so, it’s a win-win situation.” I give him an awkward thumbs up, right before the poutine on my fork plops down and makes a splatter of gravy and cheese. I’m just sad I lost a delicious mouthful, less so that I got some food on myself.
Just another strike against me being Russia’s potential girlfriend one day (ha!).
He’s, of course, immaculate, always taking care of his clothing, his hair and beard, and while I like it, obviously I do, it feels like he’s holding himself together instead of just adding to what’s already there. The difference between a canvas, and a botched cover-up job.
Maybe he’s a secret slob or something. I wouldn’t know, and it’s not like I’m going to get the opportunity to ask and find out.
And that sucks, too.
I’ve got three two-hour sessions left with Russia—maybe one more if his pain threshold utterly collapses and he can’t bear it (which has happened before with other clients, not gonna lie), and then we’ll both go our different ways, like two ships passing each other by at night, unaware of the other.
But don’t they have radar?
Shut up, shut up!
“Still, though. Do you think I can take you out to dinner sometime?”
I frown at him, my eyebrows pinching together. “For drawing a tattoo up for your friend for which I will get paid for?” I ask, the disbelief making my voice rise up an entire octave. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
Russia grins then, and I feel whatever tension I’d been holding in my own body finally ease at the sight of it on his face. Didn’t know I would miss seeing it so much, and now he’s right across from me, giving me a full-on view.
“I would still like to, though, if you’re okay with that.”
“What if you learn something about me and decide that you don’t want me to tattoo you anymore?” I ask, knowing it could happen, as it has happened to some of my coworkers before. Shit gets tangled, and you’re out of a tattoo, giving a chance to some other artist to disturb the vision you had for the original work.
But those are the apples, and all I can do is bake some pie.
“That won’t happen.” Russia states it like a fact when it never really works out that way. At least, not for me.
“Of course it could,” I say, adamant. “I already know you don’t really like the way I eat, but I’m not going to apologize for that. You’ve been glaring at the stain on my shirt instead of making eye contact with me for the past two minutes and my shirt is not that interesting, Russia.”
His face goes scarlet, and his eyes jump to mine, the bright blue ringed with navy. I would love to tattoo the image of his eyes, the colors, the depth, all of it.
“I was looking at the rest of the tattoos peeking through at your collarbone. I apologize,” he says, ducking his head down, and losing eye contact with me.
My heart beats hard and fast, and everything feels extra sharp along the edges.
“Oh. Okay, then,” I say, shrugging it off as best as I can. I’ve never had a guy apologize for only looking before.
“Besides, we still have another three weeks together. Buy me a coffee. Oh, no, buy me a donut, the chocolate-stuffed ones that just came out at Tim’s,” I say, flickering my fingers at him, my version of grabby hands.
“Yeah? Donuts?”
“What? Have you never had a donut before? That explains so much, so much.”
He laughs, the sound louder than expected, and several people a couple of booths away turn to look, each with a smile on their faces as they hear him laugh.
And I did that, I made him laugh, the exact opposite to Russia’s preppy look, me all disheveled, my hair coming out of its bun, my makeup barely making it past eight hours of wear time (when it promised me more)—Russia’s the prince and I’m the pauper.
And that’s just the way it is, even if I wish it could be different.
I’m used to it, though.
I know from his previous comments that I look nothing like Sera, probably am nothing like Sera, and while that seems like an obvious duh, I know without a fact that I am not what—who—he really wants, so why even try by pretending to thank me with dinner?
Nah, a donut is a better bet, because when he leaves, I’ll still have a delicious donut.
And donuts have never broken my heart.
