(no subject)

[chassit]

The Girl Who Was A Wolf.

by Melinda Curley.



This happened three years ago, but my memories of her are still vivid. I can still feel how cold it was that night, I can still smell her. Please do not think I'm simply making this up - but even if I was, there would be truth in it.

I'm a tattoo artist. I had just started working in Ann Arbor, although I'd been a tattoo artist for years. It would go like this - I would go to a city or a small town (God save me from suburbs) and I would find a job, hopefully tattooing, but if not something else. Sometimes I would stay for a year, sometimes as short as a week or a month. Somehow I survived.

When I came to Ann Arbor - a college town full of college kids, most wanting to escape from parents or the trap of a small town they hated. Tattoos and their makers were abundant - I found a job quickly. Sometimes I'd get kids that just wanted a tattoo to spite their family, but most were doing it for themselves and had their reasons. Some would cry, some didn't flinch.

I will say this - I'm good at my job. I'm good at talking to people and calming them down, so if someone was nervous I would get them talking, and by the time they left they were fine. People have said that I could be a great shrink - but there's no art in it, and I'd miss the feel of the gun in my hand.

It was cold the day she came in. A harsh Michigan storm was on the horizon, and the wind was starting to creep into your bones. A co-worker told me to be careful - frostbite was abundant and the weather could still be cruel in a city.

The wind came in with her - I looked up at the sound of the bell and I felt like I'd been splashed with water. The girl was a punk, although that was not the first thing I noticed. The first thing I noticed were her eyes, dark as the new moon, and the motion of her.

She had a quick, simple grace to her, almost trotting as she walked. She pulled off her red, hooded jacket, and walked up to me. I looked up at her and she down at me, her short, thick dark hair windswept.

"I want a tattoo," she told me, no hesitation in her voice.

"... all right," I said, getting my voice back. "Where and what kind, then?"

"A spider in a web, on my right shoulder," she said. "How much?"

I realized I was getting taken away. "Do you want to look at my art first? See if you like my style?"

"I'm not worried," she told me. "How do we do this?"

I looked at her arm, wiry and powerful, and I told her that I'd have to draw a bit on it first. I made the preparations - drawing on paper, placing it on her arm and peeling it back, leaving a tracing where she wanted it. She went to a mirror, looked at it, and nodded.

We began. I found myself unable to speak. I finally asked about the weather. She said this wasn't her first winter in Michigan, but the ones in Canada were worse, although beautiful.

We talked about snow and storms.

I finished. Time seemed to go quickly, and when I told her it was done, she stood up with grace I could never match and walked to the mirror once more. She smiled, teeth showing, and thanked me.

I was unable to sleep that night.

--

The second time she came in, her spider tattoo had healed and she smiled at me, eyes glittering (but not brightening, not those dark, beautiful eyes) and she walked over to me.

"Another one?" I asked. "What kind this time?"

"A tree," she said. "A tree in a circle, roots in a Celtic knot. On my thigh."

She peeled her pants off, standing there in her underwear, and I felt my heart speed up. I have done tattoos on thighs and breasts and more, but this was the first time that someone had made my heart race and my head spin. It was a pleasant feeling that brought up bad memories.

(It felt like the kiss that Vanessa Plath gave me, when we were halfway home and thought we were unseen. But we were, and my father caught me, and I was kicked out of the house. It was the first and last time I kissed Vanessa, but not the last time I kissed another girl.)

I drew what I thought she would like. I put it off center - to the side - of her right thigh, and the punk girl grinned. It took some time, but not once did she flinch and when we were done, she stood at the mirror and smiled.

"It's beautiful," she told me, her dark eyes locked onto mine. "I love it."

I said thanks.

When I walked home that night, the warmth of her words kept out the cold.

--

"You have a serious crush," said my roommate. She had a window open and was smoking, smirking at me. "So, who is it?" she asked.

It was no use lying. It wasn't like she'd judge - she had brought home men and women and slept with both.

"A girl that comes into my tattoo parlor," I told her. "I've done a couple tattoos for her."

"What's her name?"

I realized I didn't know. We had never exchanged names.

"I... don't know," I said.

I thought - Do wolves even have names?

"Tell me about her," she said, and put out her cigarette, shutting the window.

I did. It was an hour before I finished.

My roommate laughed a little, and said "Oh, man, I had a funny thought."

"What?"

"It almost sounds like little red riding hood ate the wolf and carries it around in her stomach."

--

The last time she came in, there was snow on the ground. The sky was a dark ocean and the sun had set, but we still had a few hours left before closing.

She had not come in for a tattoo this time, but for a piercing, and jealousy shot through me. The piercing was done; a nose ring. She paid and glanced at me. She smiled and tilted her head towards the door.

I told the boss I was taking my break. I walked outside after her. She was leaning against the wall, looking up at the moon. Her mouth was open, drinking the light, and her breath fogged up, making it look like smoke.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," she told me. "Beautiful night, huh?"

I wanted to say something. Anything. I stepped closer to her, and away from the smell of antiseptic and ink and the sound of buzzing and wincing, I could smell her. She smelt like cloves and like pine trees, she smelt of deep woods and of cold lakes, she smelt of wild things. I wanted her. I wanted her so badly it ached.

"Yeah," I said. "It is."

"Like the ring?" she asked. She grinned.

"Yeah," I said.

We spoke for a little while. Before she left, she kissed me on the lips. She smiled and told me she'd see me again.

A week passed, and then another. The others at the parlor hadn't seen her. I asked around. Nobody else had.

It was a month before I packed up and went on the move. My roommate has my number. So do the other tattooists and piercers. In case she comes back.

Sometimes, I dream of a dark forest, the stars above the only light. I start walking and I hear a four-footed creature trotting up to me, dark eyes watching me calmly. There is no malice in them. I turn and begin to walk to it, but before I get too far I wake up.

I get closer every time I have it. Soon I'll be able to touch her. Whether the result is destruction or desire, I will be content.