Page 6 of Ink & Snow
He put the mop’s business end in the bucket and leaned it against a wall. As he got ready to open the box, he pushed his sleeves up, revealing color snaking all over his forearms. I couldn’t make out any designs, not from where I was, but I was looking forward to exploring at my leisure later on. Perhaps it could be made into a game, perhaps it could be made into a sweet torture. My lips quirked into a smile before I could stop myself.
Amory found my knives and chose the bread knife for the cake. I was willing to ignore that the poor man was no use in a kitchen. I let him use the bread knife because cake was bread, kind of, but also because one did not correct his first fuck when one was freshly single. While my coffee machine warmed up on the counter, I unwrapped a couple of plates. They were dinner plates, but I hadn’t located the dessert plates yet.
“How’d you get into tattooing?” I asked Amory in an attempt to ignore what he was doing with the bread knife. It just wasn’t the right tool for cutting chocolate cake.
“Oh. I went to art school at first, and I guess it started when a friend asked me to design a tattoo for her. I came along when she had it done. It was fascinating, you know, because it’s a different kind of art than just drawing on paper or digital. You have to take into consideration how the person will move, what the muscles and the skin will do.
“Anyway, I got my first one done not much later, and from there on out, I was sort of hooked.”
He bared his left arm, showing me the inside of his wrist. A prettily shaded crescent moon shone there, so far removed from the night sky, yet bright on Amory’s pale skin.
“That was your first tattoo? That tiny moon?”
“Yeah. Not everyone starts with a big piece, you know. It’s to remind me to keep dreaming.”
Daydreaming, no doubt. “I see.”
He plated two pieces of chocolate cake, and my coffee machine had warmed up. I hit the double espresso button for myself, the sound of it grinding the beans and starting the brew cycle calming.
“I can do Americano, espresso, or regular coffee,” I told Amory.
“Americano, please,” he said. He picked up the plates and headed out to what was to be the living room. “Is the couch okay?”
“Couch, bed, whichever you want.”
“Couch it is then.”
Huh. He didn’t even sound like he was flirty at all. Odd, that, but I was determined.
I finished making his coffee and brought the mugs over. He’d put the plates on one of the moving boxes. I’d not taken the coffee table given that it was a gift from Cecil, and it had gone to the curb with all the rest of the stuff he’d given me.
Amory looked at me. “We need some forks. Or spoons.”
He went back to the box with the knives.
“I don’t think I put the rest of the cutlery in there,” I said, observing him as if this were foreplay. “Try the one on your right.”
“Oh, okay. Moving is a bitch, isn’t it? I spent four years in Korea to learn tattooing there, and packing up everything and then unpacking was just the worst.”
“Oh, I don’t mind unpacking things,” I said suggestively and put the mugs down on the box he’d chosen, probably books or office stuff.
I attempted to position myself on the couch in an enticing fashion. The room was still a mess, of course, given the movers hadn’t really taken care with where they put stuff, and the couch was at an angle. All the same, the off-white wainscoting and the buttery wallpaper above it had to make both me and the furniture stand out. The couch was black, just like my pants and sweater, and at least on that base color, Amory and I could agree.
“I guess you’ll be enjoying—ah! Oh, fuck.”
Amory stood, holding his right hand. Blood welled up from his thumb, creating a color contrast no one needed in that moment.
“Shit.” I stood but realized I didn’t know where my first aid kit was. Amory turned toward me, and the already pale man had just gone as white as a sheet.
He said, “I think I’m about to—” before fainting.
I only just managed to break his fall and make sure he didn’t hit that pretty head of his on one of the boxes with a potentially sharp object in them. The easiest option was to get him to the ground, so I did that, huffing as I manhandled the dead weight of a fainted dude who looked to be about two or three inches taller than me.
He was bleeding a lot, the cut on his thumb looking pretty deep from what I was seeing. I put his hand on his chest for now, lifted his legs. His shoes were slightly wet, either from outside or from mopping.
“Amory? Hey, Amory.”
He came back, slow, eyelids twitching, lips trembling, and then he looked at me.
