Page 5 of The Tattoo Artist

“Because it’s the only thing I’m passionate about.” I respond.

“Passion won’t give you a good life, it will not support you.”

“Enough Catalina, if Alexandra likes it, let her do it.” My father chips in, a smile spreads across my face.

My father interrupted my hurry to eat, reminding me to pause and say grace. I drop my fork, closing my eyes as I join in the prayer. The familiar words flowed from my lips; a ritual performed countless times before.

“I was thinking of going to the art museum tomorrow.” I speak, breaking the silence.

“Do you not have work?”

“No, I have a free day-the library doesn’t need me until Tuesday.”

“Then maybe you could clean the house-”

“Catalina, let her go-it’s only the museum.” My father interjects, my mother looks at him and they begin to exchange words with only their eyes.

“Why do you always do that?” My mother settles her fork down onto the table.

“Do what?”

“You always underestimate me in front of her.”

And here we begin, the arguments, nothing new here.

“She just wants to go the museum-”

“And you should understand why-”

“Catalina. Enough.”

“I won’t go.” I attempt to calm the situation down.

“Fine, you can go. Though your father and I have been speaking to Aunt Coraline, she is not feeling well.” My mother shifts in her seat. “We will be visiting her every weekend from now; you will stay at home and look after it. Get yourself a bit of practise for when you get married.”

“Mum, I’m only twenty.” I remind her.

“Old enough, I got married at sixteen and had you.” She points her fork at me.

“It was an arranged marriage, don’t suggest it though.” My father nudges my arms with a smirk.

“Oh, and I have invited the Johnson family to join us for dinner this Friday. They have a son, and he’s a good boy too, I wouldn’t mind letting you both date. His mother is a right charmer too.”

“I’m sure she is darling.” Dad replies, sipping his drink.

My phone vibrates from my pocket, and I slide it out.

Cathy (6:06pm): I’m waiting on the balcony, don’t be long.

“Can I be excused?”

“You have barely touched your food?”

“I’m not that hungry. Thank you.” I stand up, lifting my plate before placing it inside the sink.

With a sense of urgency, I retreated to my room, closing the door behind me. Sliding open the curtains, I unlocked the balcony door and stepped out into the cool evening air. Across the way, Catherine’s balcony beckoned, a sanctuary where we could share our daily chats undisturbed.

“Good to see you made it out of dinner alive," I smirk, leaning against the banister of the balcony as Catherine joined me. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she tosses me a packet of cigarettes, which I catch effortlessly.