She gestures me over, making me sit on the other side from the tattoo so I won’t be able to see it until it’s done. Then she goes back to telling me how mad she is.
“You’re too mean to him,” she says, as Martin preps her, cleaning and lubricating the patch of skin.
Henna’s so focused on me, it’s like she gets tattoos every day.
“Your parents will go mental,” I say, also not for the first time.
“My parents won’t know. I’m not doing this for them.”
“You really think they’re not going to see it in Africa? You’re never going to go swimming or sunbathing or–?”
Henna snorts. “You obviously know nothing about missionaries.”
Martin the tattoo guy holds up his needle, ready to start. “You’re going to Africa?”
“Central African Republic,” Henna says.
“Isn’t there a war happening there?”
“Yes,” I say. “Her crazy parents are taking her anyway.”
“I went through Tanzania, Malawi and Zambia two years ago,” Martin says. “Most amazing thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Were they shooting at you?” I say.
“Not really.” Martin turns on the power to his needle. “Now, no one here is going to pretend this doesn’t actually hurt, but it’s a pain you’ll find bearable, I promise.”
“Thanks,” Henna says. Then she looks up to me, eyes still annoyed, and holds out her non-cast hand across her chest for me to hold. I take it. She grunts slightly when Martin touches her with the needle, but she doesn’t flinch. He paints in what must be a few dots, then asks, “How’s that going to be? It won’t get any worse, but it won’t get any better, either.”
“Compared to how much my arm hurt,” Henna says, “this is like a mild headache.”
“Good.” Martin carries on with the tattooing.
“You know if your parents find out,” I say, “they’ll blame me and Mel for sending you off the rails.”
“‘Off the rails’?” Henna asks, wincing. “You talk like an old woman sometimes, Mike.”
“I talk like a politician. My mom has a speech where she says ‘off the rails’ a lot when she’s talking about the other party.”
“Well, maybe it’s time I went off the rails,” Henna says, frowning. “Maybe I’ve been on the fucking rails for far too long.”
“Language,” Martin says, still tattooing. We both look at him. He’s covered in tattoos, some of which aren’t exactly family viewing. He sees us, shrugs. “Just a personal pet peeve. Everyone does it.
So why be like everyone?”
He sticks her again with the needle. Henna tenses up. I think she’s holding her breath. He finishes, looks up. “That’s one element done.” He re-inks his needle and gets to work on the rest.
“How many elements are there?” I ask Henna.
“Just never you mind,” she says through gritted teeth. A single tear escapes from her eye. I wipe it away with my free hand. “Thanks,” she says.
We don’t say much through the rest of the tattoo. It takes a little over an hour, but from the area where I see Martin working, I don’t think it’s going to end up too big. A tattoo is out of character for Henna, which I think is her entire point, but a big, ugly tattoo and she’d stop being Henna altogether.
It’ll be something right-sized and good.
She looks down at it once, only once, during the whole procedure. “I didn’t know they bled,” she says.