Tension Lines

Ten years I've been going up against Stewart Standish.

Let me do the math for you, since I did it again this morning with my coffee. I'm 52. He's 48. We met at an art auction a decade ago, back when my studio was one room above a laundromat and his gallery was already the gallery. He outbid me on a print I'd wanted. A small thing. A linocut. I made a comment about gallery owners and their wallets, he made a comment about tattoo parlors and their walls, and the matter ended there.

A rivalry was born.

Ten years of barbs. Ten years of him refusing to show my flash art and me refusing to submit to his juries. Ten years of running into each other at openings and pretending the other person didn't exist while standing three feet away.

And then, six months ago, everything got complicated.

I'm not going to detail all of it here. Some things stay in the room. But the short version is this: the man is exhausting in bed in the best possible way, and I've spent half a year pretending that didn't change anything.

It changed everything. Obviously.

* * *

That night I was prepping my station in the back room. Wiping down the chair. Laying out needles. The warehouse district gets quiet after eight, and my studio hummed with that fluorescent buzz that either annoys people or puts them to sleep. Above me, his gallery space sat empty until Thursday. He exhibits local artists up there. I ink permanent decisions down here. We have never once agreed on what counts as art.

My hands were steady. They're always steady. But there was a fire in my gut that wasn't the usual pre-session focus, and I knew exactly who'd lit it.

Because that night was a challenge. My challenge. I called him Tuesday and laid it out before he could get a word in.

"Standish. Come to the studio Friday. Eight sharp. I'm going to tattoo you."

There was a pause on the line. I could hear him deciding whether to be insulted or intrigued.

"And if I decline?"

"Then you admit you're scared of a needle and a woman with better hands than any artist you've ever hung."

"Kourtney."

"Friday. Eight."

He came. Of course he came. The man would walk into traffic before he'd let me win something by default.

* * *

At 7:58, the bell over my door went off. I didn't look up from the tray. I counted to four, then I looked.

He was in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, forearms on display like he knows exactly what forearms do to a person. His hair had gone more gray at the temples that year. He noticed me noticing and didn't blink.

"Fisher."

"Standish. You're early."

"I'm punctual. There's a difference."

"Sure there is." I snapped my gloves on. "Sit."

He sat in the client chair like it was a throne he was granting me temporary use of. That's the thing about Stewart. He walks into every room already owning it. I've spent ten years wanting to take that away from him.

"Here's how this works," I said. "I tattoo you. You stay still. You stay silent. You don't flinch, you don't negotiate, you don't ask how long. I pick the design. You sign a standard release like every other client who's ever sat in that chair. Understood?"

"And the subject of this exercise?"

"Bragging rights. You've spent a decade acting like your opinion on my work carries more weight than my needle does. Tonight you find out what my needle feels like."

His mouth did that thing. The almost-smile. The one I've wanted to slap off his face at a dozen openings and, lately, wanted to do considerably less violent things to.

"Suppose I don't flinch," he said. "Suppose I sit through your entire performance like stone."

"Then what?"

"Then you owe me one thing. Anything I choose. One submission, Kourtney. Complete. No negotiation."

The studio hummed. The fluorescents buzzed. My stomach did something I refused to name.

"That's a stupid bet," I said.

"That's a fair bet. You're asking me to hand you my skin. I'm asking you to hand me one hour of your will. One. I'd call that modest."

"It's not modest. It's deranged."

"Then decline." He stood, adjusted his cuff, moved toward the door like a man with somewhere better to be.

"Sit down," I said.

He sat. Slowly. Smugly. The word smugly was invented for this man.

"I should mention," he added, "that I've been stitched, burned, and broke a wrist falling off a roof in Menorca in 2019. My pain tolerance is not in question."

"Everyone says that on the chair."

"Everyone isn't me."

God, I hate him. I hate him so much my palms sweat inside the gloves.

* * *

I picked the design while he took off his shirt, and I'll admit I took my time about it. I'm 52. He's 48 and keeps himself like a man who expects to be looked at. Flat stomach, good shoulders, a scatter of ink he's never explained. There was a black line down his left side I'd never seen up close. I didn't ask. Ten years of rivalry means I know which questions cost me.

I settled on geometry. A sharp stencil, angular, a pattern of interlocking lines meant for the ribs. Ribs hurt. That's the point. It's precise work, too, which meant every twitch would show, which meant he couldn't hide a flinch behind movement.

"Shirt off. Lie on your left side. Arm up."

He complied without commentary, which was somehow worse than commentary. I shaved the patch, wiped it, and pressed the stencil against his ribs. He held absolutely still.

"Last chance to walk out," I said.

"Begin."

I started the liner. The first line went in along the lower rib, and I watched his face in the mirror on the wall. Nothing. Stone. Fine.

Here's what nobody tells you about tattooing a body like his: it's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with the bet. My left hand stretched the skin tight, and under the glove I could feel the heat of him, the shift of breath