Right now I was trying to convince him to give me a tattoo and he was having none of it.
“I’m sorry, Lille,” he said while crossing his tatted up, muscular arms across his chest and giving me a placid look, “but if I put ink on you your mother will have my guts for garters, and going up against Miranda Baker is not on my bucket list.”
“But getting a tattoo is on my bucket list, and I adore your work, and I don’t want to have to drive all the way into the city to get it done, and…”
He cut me off when he placed two fingers on my lips to shut me up. I swallowed and blinked, momentarily forgetting everything I was about to say because as I mentioned, I had a crush on him and his fingers were on my lips.
Gulp.
My eyes got all big and round and my breathing accelerated. Shay smirked knowingly as he withdrew his hand from my mouth. Smug bastard. The sad thing was, he was well aware of my crush but he found me about as attractive as a flat, lifeless piece of cardboard. All of the girls in this town fancied Shay, but he only went for the sexy, sassy hot chicks who were no doubt wild in the sack.
I was not sexy or sassy, and my clothing was as plain Jane as you could get (thank you, Mother), ergo, not hot.
I was the arty girl with her head in the clouds and it was not considered cool to be seen with me. In fact, it was considered the complete opposite of cool.
But I was an artist, just like him, so I thought we could bond over our shared loved of canvas and paint. That never happened. At best, Shay tolerated me. At worst, he wished I’d bugger off and quit pestering him with questions about tattoos.
How does the gun work?
What kind of ink do you use?
How often does the skin get infected?
Can I have a go of the gun?
What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever tattooed on someone?
Is there such a thing as a degree in tattoo artistry?
So yeah, I was a question asker. Most evenings I’d find a reason to stop by the parlour and admire his drawings that were hung up all over the walls. I’d try to show him my own stuff, but he was disinterested.
Shay was into dark art, like Giger and Kalmakov.
I was into Pop art, like Warhol and Lichtenstein. I was all about colour.
Anyway, back to my list. It only contained ten items so far, and getting a tattoo was one of them. I’d designed it myself. It was a multi-coloured, paint splashed hot air balloon. I’d wanted to get the tattoo first, because most of the other items on my list were about having an adventure and breaking free. For me, nothing symbolised an adventure more than a hot air balloon.
Where would it bring you?
What would you do when you got there?
Who would you meet?
And since hot air balloon rides also had a chance of ending in disaster, I thought it was all the more appropriate. After all, there’s no point of an adventure if safety is guaranteed. The whole purpose is the unknown, the danger.
I craved it more than anything.
Shay went back to his sketching table, his back turned to me when he said, “I’m not doing the tattoo, Lille, so you might as well get going.”
I swallowed back the lump in my throat and headed for the door. Just before I stepped outside, I turned around and said, “If you’re afraid of someone as ridiculous as my mother, then you must work so hard on all those muscles to hide the fact that you’re a massive wimp, Shay Cosgrove.”
I sounded like a petulant child. Plus, I was being hypocritical, because if anyone was afraid of my mother it was me. Still, I felt the need to put Shay in his place. He thought he was so hip and cool, but really he was just a pretentious small town arsehole.
Wow, I think my crush just disappeared. Cowardice was a surprisingly big turn off.
“Lille,” he began in an annoyed tone, but I left before he could get the last word in. I had to get to work anyway. I muttered my annoyance to myself as I struggled up the hill to the restaurant. Everywhere in this town you were either going up a hill or down a hill. It was like whoever built it was having a good old joke on behalf of all future inhabitants.
While I was on my summer break from college, where I was studying for a degree in Business (at my mother’s behest), I was working part-time at a small restaurant in town. I was scheduled for the Sunday afternoon shift and the place would be packed with families having dinner. I liked this shift best because my boss, Nelly, let me do face painting for the kids while the parents enjoyed their meals.
On a normal day I was a waitress, but on Sundays I got to be an artist. Well, as much as turning little boys into Spiderman and little girls into fairies counted as being an artist. I especially liked it when the girls wanted to be Spiderman and the boys wanted to be fairies.
I was all for breaking the mould.
And I loved kids. In fact, I felt far more comfortable talking to five year-olds than I did talking to adults. Kids told you exactly what they were thinking. Adults said one thing when they really meant another entirely. It was confusing.
I had a hard time connecting with most people. My curiosity and endless questions tended to turn them off. Mum said I came across too eager, and that I had to work on being more aloof and unattainable, whatever that means. I thought on this as I went inside the restaurant and began to set up my face paints at an empty table by the door. I smiled as I heard several little girls squeal in delight when they saw me. I was known as the face painting lady around these parts and elicited much excitement in children.
I waved hello to Nelly who was standing by the service counter and then let my eyes drift over the patrons. I recognised all of the regulars, but two tables down sat an old woman and a young man I’d noticed a couple of days ago. They’d been in every day since, and caught my interest mainly because the woman must have been in her sixties and her hair was as red as a Coca-Cola can. She also wore about a hundred necklaces all tangled around her neck.
The man had long, wavy dark brown hair and brown eyes. His skin was tanned and he wore a battered old t-shirt. His equal battered brown fedora hat sat on the table in front of him. He reminded me a little of a sexy gypsy, though less of a My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding gypsy, and more of a Johnny Depp in Chocolat gypsy. He was tall, and his muscles made Shay’s look like puppy fat in comparison.
In other words, he was hot…and I was staring. I’d found myself staring at him a lot this past week, but never caught him staring back (much to my disappointment.) The woman he was sitting with caught my eye and gave me a mischievous wink. I smiled to myself and looked away. There was a queue of kids lining up to have their faces painted, so I tried to focus on my job rather than the odd couple sitting two tables down.
A little while later as I went to grab a glass of water, Nelly took me aside and asked, “See those two in there?”
I nodded.
“They’re from the circus, the one set up just outside of town. I think the woman is the owner. She’s a strange looking character altogether.”
I absorbed this information with another nod. I was well aware of the circus. In fact, tonight was its last show before it moved on, and I’d been saving up a little cash to go see it. My mind was awash with possibilities. I wanted to see clowns, elephants, lions and acrobats. I wanted to see it all. I’d asked my sometimes friend Delia if she wanted to come but she’d given me the brush off. I say “sometimes friend” because sometimes she ignores me, especially if her other friends are around. I think she really only tolerates me because my mum runs this big important tech company and she wants to get in good with the local highflying business woman.