Kalil Nadir
Kalil Nadir
It was a slow day, and he knew it would be. It always drags when it rains. But it didn't compel him to lock the door and call it a night, despite the occasional spurts of laughter and rough-housing in the bar below. Even in the worst weather, someone would be fool enough to get smashed and then get a little more daring, instead of going home like they ought to.
With a quiet sigh he leaned back on the stool, rubied irises peering out into the dark stairwell, as if he could will one of them to join him. Half the time, he was certain it truly worked that way, but he never really knew if it was just merely passing more time than he realized staring like that. His thin dark brows lifted slightly as a figure emerged from the shadows, and he sat upright in his chair, as if he owed them the courtesy deserving of an old friend. Maybe he did. Even if he went out of his way to be polite, they were too far gone or too nervous to begin with to look at him beyond those first few glances. In a way, he didn't blame them. He just stood, moving aside to clean up for a new pair of gloves.
It was the pictures really, but the more there was to see, the easier it must have been to convince them to do it. With each passing night he remembered his own apprehension less and less, it seemed so long ago that he was one like them. He would wait patiently, ignoring them as they ignored him, waiting for the right moment. Suddenly the figure, a young woman it appeared, shuffled over to the chair across from him. "Didn't that hurt?" she asked, vaguely gesturing to his chest. She wasn't that drunk really, but she wasn't as vibrant as she must have been before she'd come out that night.
He could hear his own voice asking which one, finding no interest in answering the same question night after night, hour after hour. If it wasn't some remark about his platinum strands seemingly hacked off with little better than a knife, it was some thoughtless question about the piercings. Of course he wouldn't say a hole in the face was less painful than a hole anywhere else. Rarely would a tattoo artist have no tattoos of his own; why shouldn't body piercings follow the same sales pitch? He was bejeweled along the eyebrows, nose, ears, below the lip, and even more underneath his clothes. Years of apprenticeship offered plenty of insight into the history of the practice, but it was wasted on some people.
Worst case, if the woman couldn't make up her mind, he wouldn't need the gun or the needle. That usually wasn't the kind of piercing his clients had in mind.
It was a slow day, and he knew it would be. It always drags when it rains. But it didn't compel him to lock the door and call it a night, despite the occasional spurts of laughter and rough-housing in the bar below. Even in the worst weather, someone would be fool enough to get smashed and then get a little more daring, instead of going home like they ought to.
With a quiet sigh he leaned back on the stool, rubied irises peering out into the dark stairwell, as if he could will one of them to join him. Half the time, he was certain it truly worked that way, but he never really knew if it was just merely passing more time than he realized staring like that. His thin dark brows lifted slightly as a figure emerged from the shadows, and he sat upright in his chair, as if he owed them the courtesy deserving of an old friend. Maybe he did. Even if he went out of his way to be polite, they were too far gone or too nervous to begin with to look at him beyond those first few glances. In a way, he didn't blame them. He just stood, moving aside to clean up for a new pair of gloves.
It was the pictures really, but the more there was to see, the easier it must have been to convince them to do it. With each passing night he remembered his own apprehension less and less, it seemed so long ago that he was one like them. He would wait patiently, ignoring them as they ignored him, waiting for the right moment. Suddenly the figure, a young woman it appeared, shuffled over to the chair across from him. "Didn't that hurt?" she asked, vaguely gesturing to his chest. She wasn't that drunk really, but she wasn't as vibrant as she must have been before she'd come out that night.
He could hear his own voice asking which one, finding no interest in answering the same question night after night, hour after hour. If it wasn't some remark about his platinum strands seemingly hacked off with little better than a knife, it was some thoughtless question about the piercings. Of course he wouldn't say a hole in the face was less painful than a hole anywhere else. Rarely would a tattoo artist have no tattoos of his own; why shouldn't body piercings follow the same sales pitch? He was bejeweled along the eyebrows, nose, ears, below the lip, and even more underneath his clothes. Years of apprenticeship offered plenty of insight into the history of the practice, but it was wasted on some people.
Worst case, if the woman couldn't make up her mind, he wouldn't need the gun or the needle. That usually wasn't the kind of piercing his clients had in mind.