Waiting For Us [COMPLETED]

epilogue - good things happen to those who wait

Eight years later:

Talia:

It took me one month to get used to the constant buzzing noise, two months to get used to the wincing, and three months to get used to the occasional blood. All around, I called that a success.

What I'm not used to, however, are the annoying clients who can't seem to take a hint.

"If you keep shifting around like that, all of the shading is going to be messed up," I say, flipping off the tattoo gun to get my point across.

Tattooing is not a job I thought I would have. I thought I would take the more traditional route with art, such as painting murals in small towns or creating something for a gallery. This did not cross my mind at seventeen years old, but I'm so happy it did at eighteen.

After graduating college one year early with a completed art portfolio and degree, I reached out to every tattoo shop within the New York City area—which there are nearly twenty of—to send them my work and describe my interest in tattooing. I was on the search for an apprenticeship, and by some luck, one shop wrote back to me, asking me to start the following week. I screamed my ears off that night out of pure excitement.

Two years later, I became a certified tattoo artist, and created to my heart's content. At that same shop where I grew close to the other employees, I continue to design pieces for many clients. My favorite part of the whole job is drawing out the art in my sketchbook and watching it come to life on someone's skin. And then my art is with them everyday, for the rest of their life. It makes me ridiculously happy.

The funniest part about this whole thing is that I still don't have a single tattoo on my body. I'm still deciding what I want on my skin.

About one year after my certification, my clients became a certain group of people, which is what I've mainly been doing for the past year. But not this one person currently occupying my table. If he was a part of that group, he would know not to flirt with me. Additionally, if he actually opened his eyes and took a look around my space, he would clearly be able to tell I'm not available.

"Oh, I'm trying my best to keep still," he muses. "Maybe if you tried tying me to the table, I would behave."

I think I'm going to vomit. Deep breath in, deep breath out. "That won't be necessary," I calmly say. I turn the tattoo gun back on. "I'm almost done."

Then, I press the needle back into his skin, just where his flesh is most sensitive. His arm flinches and his face looks severely constipated as he tries to hold out for the last few minutes.

"Done," I say, turning the gun off for one last time and placing it on my little cart. "I need to wrap it and then you're done."

I switch out my pair of gloves for a new set, and quickly get to securing the protective film to help with the healing. Then, I politely guide him out of my space and into the foyer. At least I'm getting paid for this.

As if he can't stop being annoying, the man stops in the middle of the foyer, blocking me from moving to the front desk to complain to Sierra, the girl in charge of all of the appointments. He points at someone standing by the counter.

"Oh, my God," he breathes out in shock. "You're Grayson Summers. You play for the New York Knicks!"

My husband-turned-NBA-famous-superstar stares at the man, and probably questions his sanity at the moment. Grayson's eyes flit to me, and I make the point of rolling my eyes to show my distaste with the client. He nods.

"I am," Grayson says coldly.

The man stands dumbfounded from learning he is meeting the one and only Grayson Summers. "Can I get a picture with you? If it would be no trouble." He doesn't even wait for him to respond, and instead hands me his phone. "Here, take the photo for me, sweetheart."