The Tattoo Artist's Touch
"Ink & Soul is the premier Black-owned tattoo shop in DC. When a nervous first-timer asks for something meaningful, the artist discovers meaning of her own."
I've been putting ink in skin for thirty years.
Started apprenticing at sixteen, opened Ink & Soul at twenty-five. Now I'm fifty-six, and my work hangs in galleries between client sessions.
I'm Simone. I make permanent marks.
"I want something meaningful."
The man in my chair is nervous—hands gripping the armrests, sweat on his brow.
"Everyone wants meaningful. What does that mean to you?"
His name is Marcus.
Fifty-two, recently lost his mother. He wants her handwriting tattooed on his forearm—something she wrote to him before she passed.
"This is permanent," I remind him.
"So was she."
I begin to work.
The first session takes three hours.
He's nervous but brave—doesn't complain, doesn't squirm. We talk while I work.
"Why now?" I ask.
"Because I've been carrying this grief for six months and I need somewhere to put it."
"That's what I do." I wipe the excess ink. "I give grief a home."
He comes back for touch-ups.
More than necessary, maybe, but I don't mind. He's interesting. Thoughtful. Looks at my portfolio like it matters.
"You're an artist," he says.
"I'm a tattooer."
"Same thing." He points at a piece on my wall. "That belongs in the Smithsonian."
"That belongs on someone's skin." I smile. "Where it can move, change, live."
"Why tattoos?"
We're having coffee after his third "touch-up"—which at this point is clearly an excuse.
"Because people trust me with their stories." I show him my own arms, covered in work. "Every piece here means something. I carry histories."
"That sounds heavy."
"It's an honor." I trace a memorial piece on my shoulder. "Some people's stories deserve to be told."
"Can I see your work? Not client work. Your personal stuff."
No one's asked that before.
"It's not... I don't show people."
"Why not?"
"Because it's too close." I look away. "Too personal."
"Isn't all art personal?"
I take him to my studio.
Above the shop, cluttered with canvases and sketches. My real work—the pieces too intense for galleries.
"God," he breathes. "Simone..."
"It's just—"
"This is extraordinary." He moves from piece to piece. "Why are you hiding this?"
"Because not everyone wants to see grief and love and everything else mixed together."
"I do." He turns to face me. "I see all of it. And I want more."
"More art?"
"More you." He moves closer. "I've been making up reasons to come back because I can't stop thinking about you. Your hands. Your focus. The way you pour yourself into everything."
"Marcus—"
"Tell me I'm wrong." His hand touches my face. "Tell me you don't feel this."
I can't tell him that.
We kiss surrounded by my art.
Raw, exposed pieces that no one's seen—and now he's seeing me the same way.
"The couch," I manage.
"Here?" He looks around at the canvases.
"This is where I'm most myself." I pull him down. "I want you to see everything."
He undresses me like I'm a masterpiece.
Studies every curve, every mark, every tattoo on my skin.
"You're covered in stories," he murmurs.
"Now I want yours."
His mouth traces my tattoos.
Kisses the memorial on my shoulder, the flowers on my hip, the words on my ribs. Like he's reading me.
"So beautiful," he says.
"You can't read them all in one night."
"Then I'll come back." He settles between my thighs. "Again and again."
His tongue on me is revelation.
Patient, attentive, learning me like I learn clients. He doesn't rush—takes his time until I'm crying out among my paintings.
"Now," I gasp. "Please."
He slides inside me, and I feel marked.
Not ink—something deeper. His eyes hold mine while he moves.
"This is permanent," he whispers.
"I hope so."
Afterward, he traces the fresh tattoo on his arm.
"Thank you," he says. "For carrying her with me."
"Thank you for seeing me."
"The art or the woman?"
"Is there a difference?"
"No." He pulls me close. "There's not."
Marcus becomes my partner.
In the studio, in the shop, in everything. He learns about ink, helps with the business, models for my personal work.
"You're my muse now," I tell him.
"I thought I was your client."
"That too." I kiss him. "Everything too."
The next collection gets gallery attention.
"Love After Grief," I call it.
Marcus stands beside me at the opening, his arm bearing my work.
"Permanent marks," he says.
"The best kind."
We go home covered in praise.
Make new marks on each other.
Some visible.
Some only we can see.
All of them forever.