hit Grim. It wasn’t his fault that Walsh’s wife was now Grim’s; Walsh had fucked that up all on his own. But salt gets thrown on old wounds when there’s whisky involved, or so it goes when Walsh and Grim throw down in the same bar. Grim threw the first punch, and Walsh the last. Now his hand needed the fifth of Jack he kept in his shop office just for emergencies like these. Even though he had already sobered up, getting drunk all over again was the best idea he had all night. There would be no going home to a cold bed. Walsh didn’t want to remember that Grim had everything that used to be his: a kick ass house and a gorgeous wife who loved him.
As Walsh rounded the corner to his shop, INK, he saw her–slim, long legged and blonde–the trifecta of his tastes. She wore a blue skirt suit and a thin white blouse untucked and lightly fluttering in the heavy Miami summer air. She looked end-of-the-day disheveled, but in an intensely classic way. Looking at her Walsh knew one thing for certain: it was too late for a girl like that to be outside in a neighborhood like this. Nobody was safe in Richmond Heights after dark.
Walsh approached slowly. He didn’t want to startle her, yet something told him that this girl wouldn’t scare easily. As he drew near, he saw on her face a frayed sadness as if she was fighting hard to keep something at bay. Her eyes burned on a sketch in the front window, one of his own–The Blue Woman–as Walsh affectionately named it. The girl in the suit stared at it in the same inquisitive manner as he often did himself.
What was it about this sketch? Was it the woman’s dark hair flowing in the invisible breeze? Was it how the pale moon shined down and made her black hair seem blue? Was it the way her sheer white gown billowed in waves? Was it the two swords she crossed at her chest? Or was it the blindfold, and the way in which a slight smile creased her lips telling the viewer how much she liked it. Walsh believed that when he could answer these questions, he would finally find a way to stop drawing The Blue Woman. He would finally stop seeing her every night in his dreams and every day in his waking world, and everything he didn’t know, like the life before he was found naked in this sweltering city with no memory of who he was or how he got there, would be revealed.
The blonde standing at the window of Walsh’s shop looked at the sketch so intently that she didn’t hear him behind her.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” he said.
The blonde jumped and turned around, and that’s when he saw how truly beautiful she was. Bright green eyes, milky skin, and lips he wanted to sink into. But there was something else. There was the same sadness he saw from afar, but up close, he could see a desperation, an eagerness to live outside one’s own skin.
“What?” she asked.
Walsh collected himself. “The sketch,” he said.
The girl glanced back to it. “Yes. It’s really amazing. Can you tattoo it on my back?”
This shocked Walsh; the girl didn’t look the tattoo type.
“I could pay you double if you do it,” she said as if sensing his hesitation.
“This tats not for sale,” he said flatly. He did not elaborate. He did not tell her that he had already tried on several occasions to ink it but failed. It was if The Blue Woman somehow wouldn’t allow it.
“What about something like this then?” she said, and handed Walsh a sketch she clutched in her hand.
Walsh unfolded the paper and found cascading thorns and thickets and vines.
“Can you do it?” she asked with a hint of strain in her voice.
He inspected the design. “No color, soft lines. Sure, I can do it. No problem.” Walsh fished his keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door of his shop. “Come on in and we’ll set you an appointment.”
The girl stood fixed on her spot. “Triple if you do it right now,” she said.
“It’s 1:00AM. My shop’s closed, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me
As Walsh rounded the corner to his shop, INK, he saw her–slim, long legged and blonde–the trifecta of his tastes. She wore a blue skirt suit and a thin white blouse untucked and lightly fluttering in the heavy Miami summer air. She looked end-of-the-day disheveled, but in an intensely classic way. Looking at her Walsh knew one thing for certain: it was too late for a girl like that to be outside in a neighborhood like this. Nobody was safe in Richmond Heights after dark.
Walsh approached slowly. He didn’t want to startle her, yet something told him that this girl wouldn’t scare easily. As he drew near, he saw on her face a frayed sadness as if she was fighting hard to keep something at bay. Her eyes burned on a sketch in the front window, one of his own–The Blue Woman–as Walsh affectionately named it. The girl in the suit stared at it in the same inquisitive manner as he often did himself.
What was it about this sketch? Was it the woman’s dark hair flowing in the invisible breeze? Was it how the pale moon shined down and made her black hair seem blue? Was it the way her sheer white gown billowed in waves? Was it the two swords she crossed at her chest? Or was it the blindfold, and the way in which a slight smile creased her lips telling the viewer how much she liked it. Walsh believed that when he could answer these questions, he would finally find a way to stop drawing The Blue Woman. He would finally stop seeing her every night in his dreams and every day in his waking world, and everything he didn’t know, like the life before he was found naked in this sweltering city with no memory of who he was or how he got there, would be revealed.
The blonde standing at the window of Walsh’s shop looked at the sketch so intently that she didn’t hear him behind her.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” he said.
The blonde jumped and turned around, and that’s when he saw how truly beautiful she was. Bright green eyes, milky skin, and lips he wanted to sink into. But there was something else. There was the same sadness he saw from afar, but up close, he could see a desperation, an eagerness to live outside one’s own skin.
“What?” she asked.
Walsh collected himself. “The sketch,” he said.
The girl glanced back to it. “Yes. It’s really amazing. Can you tattoo it on my back?”
This shocked Walsh; the girl didn’t look the tattoo type.
“I could pay you double if you do it,” she said as if sensing his hesitation.
“This tats not for sale,” he said flatly. He did not elaborate. He did not tell her that he had already tried on several occasions to ink it but failed. It was if The Blue Woman somehow wouldn’t allow it.
“What about something like this then?” she said, and handed Walsh a sketch she clutched in her hand.
Walsh unfolded the paper and found cascading thorns and thickets and vines.
“Can you do it?” she asked with a hint of strain in her voice.
He inspected the design. “No color, soft lines. Sure, I can do it. No problem.” Walsh fished his keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door of his shop. “Come on in and we’ll set you an appointment.”
The girl stood fixed on her spot. “Triple if you do it right now,” she said.
“It’s 1:00AM. My shop’s closed, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me
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