Page 31 of Tattooed Sweetness

“May I ask something?” I interject, and he stops at counter level, turning around.

He smirks—and every millimeter by which the corners of his mouth widen has the effect of a depressed gas pedal on my heartbeat. “Did you remember your question already?”

Unable to decide whether to classify his behavior as rude or friendly teasing, I have to wet my lips before I continue. “You just said your day usually starts with unlocking…” Very confidently—at least as far as I can judge—I ignore his objection. “…I infer from this that this is not the case at present?”

On his otherwise-so-amused glittering, green-speckled eyes a shade settles, which lets me discover unexpected depth. “Right now, I’m sleeping here in the parlor.” He points to a roll of sleeping mats and neatly folded blankets next to the computer tower under the desk.

Uh-huh.I’m not sure how to deal with this revelation.

Mr. Sandtmann apparently doesn’t either. His chest stretches the brightly printed band shirt as he takes a deep breath, and he looks at me with slightly pursed lips. He inhales once more. “I should be honest with you.” A tiny muscle on his left cheek twitches. “Even though the fact will probably destroy my prospects of realizing my dream.”

What does he mean?I find myself hanging on his lips. I hope he doesn’t misinterpret my almost drooling gaze! All I really want to know right now is what dark secret lies behind his improvised sleeping quarters.

“The day I came to see you last week…” Mr. Sandtmann’s confession—there’s no other way I can describe it—seems to be anything but easy, for his jaw muscles break up each syllable before it passes his lips. “…some pretty shady guys showed up in the evening. They wanted, preferably on the spot, to extort group tattoos from me, and when I refused, they launched threats.”

“Oh my God!” Quite without my doing, my gaze scans every shred of Mr. Sandtmann’s unclothed skin.Do I see any traces of a physical altercation there?“Have you had your injuries documented by a doctor? Did you go to the police? I know a lawyer who…”

For a reason I don’t understand, Mr. Sandtmann literally bursts out laughing instead of responding to my comments. “You…” He fans himself with his tattooed knuckles—what does it actually say?—and plops down in his office chair, snorting. “You’re epic. Has anyone told you that yet? Honestly, I can’t remember smiling nearly as much lately… As I do around you.”

What is he saying? And what does he mean?I tilt my head and purse my lips, ready for an answer as he heaves himself back up out of the swivel chair in a businesslike manner.

“No, no injuries, no damage. And most importantly, no cops. I’m not too keen on them…” He pushes his athletic body past me as if I were air, and the cloud of scent that envelops him tingles every pore of my skin. “Am I supposed to be disappointed that you expect so few de-escalation skills from me?”

Dully, I follow him. Of course, I can’t think of a quick-witted parry as he explains the rest of his morning routine: turn on the computer and printer, open the front door, and put out the ashtray. Wipe down and disinfect the table, counter, surfaces, and door handles… After a short while, my ears are ringing and my fingers are aching from the notes that now fill three sheets. Relieved, I accept Mr. Sandtmann’s offer to have coffee.

His partner—not life mate!—also takes a break. She lets him make her a double espresso. Then, without a word, she disappears outside with the cup, only to fade away in a cloud of smoke in a matter of seconds.

Her living canvas—referred to by Mr. Sandtmann as theclient—agrees to let me inspect the half-finished flower tendril with which she is currently embellished. But I am not allowed to enter the tattoo compartment until I have scrubbed my hands under hot water for half an eternity. And after I have to rub them with huge amounts of disinfectant under the suddenly-not-at-all-amused eyes of Mr. Sandtmann.

Last but not least, he also forces squeaky pink disposable gloves on me, which he plucks from a dispenser on the wall. “Bella’s size should fit you,” he mumbles, showing me how to inflate them like a balloon.

After I get a closer look at the picture-perfect woman on the couch, I revise my assessment. Her skin is less canvas than collage. Because tattoos of the most diverse styles—which they are, Mr. Sandtmann explains to me, but the information rushes past me—form a wild mixture that somehow reminds me of the entry stamps in Aunt Mareike’s ancient passport.

“The cheat sheet for the session lies waiting here.” Mr. Sandtmann lifts up first a printout wrapped in plastic, then a bottle similarly enveloped. “It’s a copy of the image we transferred from the template to the skin with stencil stuff when we were preparing.”

Meanwhile, Bea—or Bella?—has returned from her smoke break. She sanitizes her hands, then points gloved fingers at the bottle in Mr. Sandtmann’s hand. “Have you told her yet, Philly, that you’re always cracking jokes about the consistency of stencil stuff to ease your clients’ tensions?”

Inquiringly, I glance from her to him—who stiffens, barely noticeably. Apparently, the mention of his anecdotes doesn’t ease his tension.

“The stencil stuff…” His gaze, chilled by several dozens of degrees, turns to his partner, who mirrors his expression with a hint of defiance. “It looks like semen. Since you have to rub it vigorously to open the pores…” He makes a definite hand gesture that brings heat to my cheeks. “You can use this as a great icebreaker for anxious clients.”

Bea-Bella squeezes past Mr. Sandtmann. “As anxious as Miss pure skinner here?”

What does that word mean?Before I can even ask, she’s reaching out with her foot for a rolling stool covered in plastic wrap.

With an energetic head movement, she asks the collage woman to place her thigh on an equally Christo-like wrapped support. In doing so, she shoots daggers at Mr. Sandtmann out of the corner of her eye.

He describes her hand movements. “Bella finished the outlines before her break. As you can see, she is unwrapping another disposable needle for the colored fills and inserts it into the handle…” He turns his attention to me. “I want the client to see that, too. That we only use disposable materials.”

Bella—so that’s the partner’s name—throws the packaging into the waste with unerring accuracy. Using the kind of tongue depressor I’d expect from an ear, nose, and throat doctor, she spreads a whitish paste on the table, which is also wrapped in foil.

A mixture ofBatida de CocoandBountywafts through the air as she jams little thimbles into the mixture, then fills them with paint from an eyedropper bottle.

“This is tattoo butter,” Mr. Sandtmann remarks to the flare of my nostrils, which I use to banish the sudden sneeze. “We use the all-natural coconut oil not only to fix the ink pots but also during the stitching process as a lubricant and slip agent, which makes tattooing much easier.”

I watch as Bella rubs a blob of coconut oil on the client’s thigh without looking.

Meanwhile, she holds the tip of the buzzing brush—Mr. Sandtmann referred to the part as a handle piece—into one of the ink-filled cups.

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