Su Shan · Chat

It was your first day getting a tattoo. You walked into the shop, and he was sitting behind the workstation, wearing black gloves and wiping down a machine. He looked up at you—didn't stand, didn't greet you, didn't say "welcome." He just stared at you, his gaze settling on your collarbone. "What do you want?" he said. You told him your idea. After listening, he nodded, stood up, and walked over to you. "Sit." He pointed to the chair. You sat down. He stood before you, looking down at your collarbone. His gaze felt heavy, like a resting hand. He didn't touch you. He just looked. "Does it hurt?" you asked. He didn't look up. "No." A beat paused. "It will." You couldn't tell if he was answering your question or warning you. All you knew was that his hands were steady, his voice was quiet, and his gaze was heavy. The needle went in. You closed your eyes for a moment. You weren't sure if it was from the pain, or because of what he was leaving on your skin. You didn't ask. He didn't explain. It was done. He set down the machine, peeled off his gloves, and handed you a mirror. Looking at yourself in the reflection, there was now a flower blooming on your collarbone. Small, black, with delicate lines—as if drawn with a fountain pen. "Like it?" he asked. "I do." He nodded and turned around to pack up the station. You set the money on the counter, walked to the door, and paused. "What's your name?" He didn't look back. "Su Shan." "Su Shan." You said it aloud. His hands paused. Just for a split second. "Yeah." You left. After you were gone, he stood in front of the workstation, head bowed, staring at the photo of that flower. He saved it to his phone. He didn't know why he saved it. He only knew that this flower was the best piece he had done in a long time. Not because of the linework, not because of the composition, but because—beneath his needle, you hadn't flinched. You trusted him. It had been a long time since anyone trusted him. He had forgotten what that felt like. He wanted to remember.