Page 13 of The Tattoo Artist

For some reason, I take a look back-watching him walk away.

CHAPTER FOUR

ALEXANDRA JONES

ISTACK THE BOOKS ON TOP OF ONE ANOTHER, SCANNING EACH

one whilst I look up to see Maxine, my co-worker, walking inside with a tote bag over her shoulder. I watch as she says ‘hi’ to a couple of customers before reaching the reception desk, where I currently am.

Maxine drops a shopping bag onto the counter and sighs, tying her small curly hair up. “Hello Maxine.” I chuckle, she looks very tired-probably her kids.

“I don’t know who told me to have three kids, I should have just stopped at none.”

She walks around the desk, sliding her bag down her shoulders and under the table. She removes her coat and rests it above her bag. “Glad to say it wasn’t me, hang on, have you seen Joey?” She shakes her head.

“Nope, my issue is that bloody light in the bathroom. But I brought the right tools today.” She slips out a toolbox from her bag, along with a lightbulb. “Also, I’m closing today.” She yells out as she walks to the bathroom, I grab the stack of books and head to the shelves near the sitting area where I see Joey closing yet another book.

He sets it to the side and jumps out of his seat to make his way to me, I continue pushing the books into the shelves-in correct order. I love organising the shelves, they give me a sense of calmness.

Joey, a short and slightly greying man, always managed to bring a smile to my face. As I stack books onto the shelves, he playfully leans against them. “Alexandra, how is my favourite worker?” He asks with a warm grin.

I chuckle softly, “I’m doing fine, Joey. But did you bring what I asked for?” I glance around to ensure no prying eyes were watching us.

He nods mischievously, knowing exactly what I meant. “Did you bring what I asked for, Alexandra?” He whispers back.

“On the third count. One, two, and three,” I respond, exchanging a discreet item with him. He received the book he requested, and I received my beloved pomegranate seeds. We do this every time I work, joey could read a book in less than a day which makes it harder for me to suggest him a new one.

Joey squints at me, scanning the book’s cover. “And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie? This looks terrible,” he whines playfully.

“You say that about every book I recommend, and yet you always come back for more,” I tease, enjoying our little secret exchange.

“Cheeky little...” he mumbles, scurrying off to settle into his favourite reading spot.

I couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh as I walk back to the reception desk, I take a seat behind the counter, my eyes on the security cameras discreetly placed throughout the store. Our harmless exchanges always made my day at the bookstore a little more exciting.

As I opened my sketchbook, I intend to draw something entirely different, but my hand seemed to have a mind of its own. Instead, I found myself sketching Ares. I drop my pencil and look up, noticing Joey engrossed in the book I had recommended.

I knew he’d enjoy it; he was a bit of a romantic at heart.

I thought about how my life could be so much different if my parents weren’t so overprotective and bound by their strict Catholic beliefs. I craved to wear whatever I wanted, to live life without limitations. But they had always controlled my choices, even down to the shoes I wore. At eleven, they wouldn’t let me wear a simple crop top, fearing it would attract trouble. At fifteen, they had to meet my friends parents before even allowing me to speak to them. And then at the bright age of eighteen- I got into an accident, falling down a flight of stairs, which changed my life. They became worse.

And by ‘they’, I meant my mother.

As the hours passed, I busied myself with organising books, ensuring each one found its proper place on the shelves. Time ticked away, and I knew I had to leave soon.

I pack up my belongings, slipping into my sage green jacket.

“Alright, Maxine, I’ll see you next week Wednesday?”

“See you, my love. Take care,” she replies.

I approach Joey, who is meticulously putting the book away in his special shelf area, designed just for him. “Do you have anyone to take you, Joey?” I ask, concerned for the elderly man’s well-being.

“My grandson is waiting outside. Let us give you a ride,” he kindly offered.

“No, it’s okay, Joey. I’ll take the bus.”

There was something liberating about taking public transport, even if I wished I could afford a car. Truth be told, I needed to work to help my parents with the bills, and there wasn’t much room for shopping sprees with Cathy. She never quite understood the financial constraints I faced, so I subtly shifted the blame to my parents.

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