Work Text:
The bell on the door jangles loudly to announce a new customer, and Porrim looks up from the ass on which she’s currently tattooing a smaller ass. Like clockwork, her regular has returned. He gives her a quick nod of greeting, his expression as unreadable as ever behind his dark aviators. Porrim rolls her eyes and gestures to the customer presently lying on her table and mooning her. He shrugs and takes two steps to his left into the waiting area of the tiny parlor, and begins flipping through books of sample designs. Porrim continues to stare at him, flicking her tongue over her lip ring as she puzzles over the strange boy.
When he first came in four and a half months ago, he had told Porrim that he’d never gotten a tattoo before. She asked him if he was scared. He said he wasn’t. She asked why he felt the need to share that, then. He shrugged. She explained that she had a number of options available, unless he had something special in mind? He said yes, he wanted a single small black line on his shoulder blade. That’s special, huh? she quipped. He shrugged again. He didn’t flinch or wince at all as she tattooed him, and he was gone no more than thirty minutes after he’d arrived. Porrim thought it was odd, but not especially noteworthy, and quickly forgot about it. That is, until he came back exactly two weeks later, asking for another identical line next to the first one. And he kept returning, every two weeks at the same time, asking for another small black line. Porrim couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it was he was counting with each new tally. She’d told the story of this odd customer a couple of times while out drinking - at the end her companions would ask her what he was counting, and they were always let down when she confessed she didn’t know. She didn’t want to ask in case it was something deeply personal. But the longer it went on the more her curiosity consumed her. She had to know.
“Hey, lady?”
Porrim is roused from her contemplation by her current customer, who is painfully craning his neck back at her to figure out why her needle isn’t in his glutes. Porrim shakes her head to clear it, looks at her tools, and sets them down. She gets up and makes her way to the front of the parlor.
“I’m sorry, this won’t take long,” She reassures the man on the table as she passes by his head.
“Hold on, wait -” He begins, trying to stop her, before gasping in pain and realizing he wouldn’t be able to move for a little while.
“Let’s make this quick, shall we?” Porrim asks the regular.
“You got it,” he replies, already stripping off his shirt and heading towards the stool in practiced routine. Porrim quickly prepares her tools while he carefully undoes his binder. He sits calmly as always as Porrim marks him with his tenth tally. After it’s done he puts his clothes back on while Porrim rings him up. He heads to the back to pay. But this time, Porrim hesitates handing him his change and receipt.
“Can I ask… what are you counting?” She asks, holding his coins hostage above his open hand. Porrim sees emotion cross his face for the first time.
With a cocky grin, he says, “How many tattoos I’ve gotten.”
“I will no longer be serving you.”