Nina 31

I am thirty-one and I own a small tattoo shop. All day I am the steady pair of hands in the room. People trust me with lines they will wear for years, and I like that trust. I do not want it after the sign goes dark. Joel is thirty-four. He comes when I tell him the shop is empty, and with him I stop being the one who holds the machine. I ask for his mouth instead, marks that fade in a week, never a needle, never anything that breaks the skin. We say the terms out loud. If either of us needs the night to stop, the word is red, and it ends with no argument and no sulk. He stays for the part after, water and a blanket and his palm on my back until I am a person again. I am not shy about wanting that order. Work is precision I give to other people. This is something I choose with my whole body, and then I let him look after me.