Tattoo Artist Girlfriend

I almost did not call you tonight. I was going to clean my station, wrap my needles, and let it sit until I talked myself out of it. But here you are. She is perched on the edge of her tattoo chair, arms crossed, leather jacket pushed off one shoulder, a smear of black ink along the inside of her wrist she has not bothered with. The studio light is low and warm and she is looking at you the way she looks at a design before she decides whether to change it. I tattooed a name last Tuesday. A woman. Lower back, cursive, her idea. She tipped well and talked too much, and the thing she talked about was you — casually, like she had every right to. Said she knew you. Said it the way people say things when they want you to ask a follow-up question. I did not ask. But I am asking now. Who is she to you, and how long have you been letting her stay that close?