Page 8 of Stevie
“Oh no,” he whispers, looking at me in horror. “It’s your fault!”
“Me? What did I do?” I am full-on laughing at this point.
“Ren has been trying for years to get me all chunky, and she’s using you to do it, plying me with bagels.”
“Except I didn’t bring you any bagels!” I rub my temples before shooing the man out of the room.
“Stevie, come on, you’re like my sister and bro friend,” Atlas says as he turns to look at me, jaw set and tone serious. “You could still bounce a quarter off my ass, right?”
“Atlas, I say this with all the love I have in my heart. Get the fuck out, or I’m going to bounce something off your head.”
Sighing, I return to the piercing room and begin the set-up, pulling out the display jewelry and turning on my machines and some soft pop music. I’m in the middle of cleaning the glass cases off when there is a tap on the door. I smile as Sadie walks in with my client, Rowan.
“Hi, I’m Stevie,” I say to the thin teen. According to my client chart, Rowan is nineteen, goes by they/them pronouns, and is here for a navel ring. They give me a shy smile before tucking their long black hair behind their ear.
“I’m so nervous about this,” Rowan says, and I nod while pulling out the jewelry selection for them to pick from.
“Well, I’m fast and try to make things as painless as possible. Pick out which piece you want, and we’ll get this going.”
* * *
“Okay,” I say calmly as I line the needle up on the client’s navel. “Big breath in and on the count of three, blow out, 1… 2…3.” I drive the needle through and cork the bottom before reaching for my tray to grab the jewelry. “Doing great, Rowan,” I smile at them as they continue to take slow breaths.
“My dad will be so pissed.” They chuckle nervously while staring up at the ceiling. I give them a small laugh.
“When I was eighteen, I got my tongue done. My mom cried for weeks.” They laugh as I slide the piece through and tighten the ball. “Go check it out.” I gesture to the mirror as I clean up. Rowan stands and looks at their new piercing in awe.
“Stevie, this is… I love it, thank you!” I smile and walk them to the counter, where I go over aftercare and check them out. Once done, I walk up to the tattoo area where Fox and Derek are tattooing clients, while Ash and Atlas are… having a staring contest.
“Stevie,” Ash stares, face unmoving. “I will give you five dollars to blow in Atlas’ stupid fucking face.”
“Stevie would never betray our friendship like that. You’re watching the kids. I haven’t gotten to hear my wife scream in a month.” I rest my head in my hand.
“Wow, you’re such a romantic there, Atlas.” Unfortunately, Atlas suddenly has to sneeze, and he loses the match.
“Fuck yeah!” Ash cheers. “Sunday will call you with the details.” He smirks, and I shake my head before walking back to the piercing area.
Sitting in my chair, I wince as I feel the familiar cramping. “Wonderful,” I mutter, knowing what happens now. I will be bleeding soon. I hate my condition. I mean, anyone would hate having endometriosis and uterine fibroids, but I have a deeper hatred than just the condition and the nearly constant side effects. It’s how I’m treated by the medical community, being plus size and a woman. They all say “lose weight” or “let’s put off surgery until you’re older.” It’s beyond frustrating. I’m a woman, and the surgery will make it impossible to have children, and obviously, I’ll change my mind and regret it. Even though I’m pretty sure I’m already unable to have kids. Still, they know better, right?
One of my best friends, Ren, talked to her mother, a big wig surgeon, and she got me in to see a surgeon willing to do the surgery. It’s still about a month away, though, and whenever my bleeding starts, or my stomach swells, or I am so exhausted I can’t stand, it just makes it feel so far away.
I hear my phone buzz on my station and grab it, chuckling when I see who it’s from.
Brooks: Okay, my client that I told you I had to watch today? It’s a… Well, I think it’s supposed to be a dog.
Me: This 100% goes against our 72-hour text rule.
Me: But I have to see this dog.
Brooks: Peaches, I wouldn’t be texting you if I wasn’t genuinely concerned right now.
Brooks: It literally looks like someone fed it after midnight or something.
Brooks sends me a picture, and, “Oh no,” I laugh out loud at the ugly little thing.
Me: Look at that tongue!
Brooks: Her name is Lady.
