Page 76 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

The two girls walk in holding hands. The tattoo artist looks them over. He’s good at guessing motifs. That’s ten years in

the business for you. He sometimes used to bet with Len, his older colleague, but then his girlfriend pointed out that it’s

unprofessional and he stopped. Have to listen to people, haven’t you? He never did when he was young but at twenty-eight he’s

learnt. He has listened, and now he squeezes the water out of the sponge before leaving it by the sink, he puts the toilet

seat down, and he doesn’t whistle and call after women on the street. And so he does the guessing quietly in his head too,

sometimes letting a vowel or word slip his lips. Talking to himself , they’ll think. But lots of people talk to themselves and do all sorts of weird things, don’t they? This is London.

The girls look too cool to ask for an eternity sign, a star, or—horror—some phrase in Chinese.

Mind you, he hasn’t had to do any of those since the jeans became higher-rise and girl bands went out of fashion.

They could ask for simple initials or each other’s names, he ponders: they certainly look loved up enough, the way they walk so close their hips bump into one another, as if they had magnets sewn into trouser seams. But he thinks they’ll surprise him.

If he and Len were still betting he’d bet they’d surprise him.

‘We’d like matching marigolds,’ the taller girl says, the one that already is sporting tattoos on her arms and collarbone

along with pink shoulder length hair.

‘Flowers, yeah?’ the tattoo artist asks.

‘Marigolds, specifically. We have some pictures.’ She flicks through her camera roll and turns the screen towards him. Small,

fluffy, asymmetrical, vibrant, delicate flowers.

He nods. This is good. There’s obviously a story here and that’s what he likes most—bringing stories to life forever. Etched

on skin. Words don’t come easily to him, and he never learnt to write, not like other people can, with full stops and commas

and fancy words that make folk feel something. But he likes to think he can tell some sort of story through his work.

The shorter girl goes first, passing her bag to her girlfriend before lying down. ‘So I can get it over with,’ she says. This

is her first tattoo, she confirms.

‘Marigolds are resilient and stubborn and they’ve influenced us both. We’re together because of one,’ she says.

The tattoo artist gets to work on her thin, white, shaky wrist, creating black pixels that will stay with her for a lifetime.

Marigolds.

He likes when he learns something new at work.