Tats by Layce Gardner

those out-of-body experiences where I’m looking at myself with somebody else’s eyes. The woman in the mirror looking back at me really needs some professional help. She looks like she just got back from that reality show Survivor. Then I realize that the reflection is me and I look away before I see me staring at me. Vivian is right. I’m a mess. That’s the second where I decide to let these women have their way with me and any kind of makeover would be for the better.
    The receptionist crooks her finger at me to approach. I slide my boots over to her and lean on the desk. She smiles sweetly and talks to me like I’m a four-year-old. “Sonja will be taking care of you. She’s good with your type.”
    “What type?” I ask, then immediately regret asking.
    “You know,” the receptionist, Paula, (her pink name tag reads Paula) says. “The au naturale type.” She waves the back of her hand up and down my body in a Vanna White gesture. “Sonja will love you.”
    I hope Sonja is not some big German woman with muscles and meaty hands who will pummel me half to death.
    I just nod.
    “Follow me,” Paula says. She leads the way and I lag a little behind. I glance over my shoulder at Vivian who shoos me with a wave of her hand like I’m some fly she’s trying to urge out the screen door.
    Paula leads me down a short hallway and opens a door and I walk inside. She winks at me, saying, “Your friend said you’ve never had a facial before and to give you the works.”
    “The works?”
    She smiles mysteriously and says, “Don’t worry. Sonja is very good. You’ll like her.”
    She shuts the door, leaving me alone in the small pink room. I try to make myself at home. Which means I take off my jacket and throw it over the back of the chair before I sit down. It’s one of those hydraulic up/down chairs that eerily resembles something in a dentist’s office. Not a good omen.
    I fold my hands in my lap and look around. There’s a sink and mirror and a countertop with all kinds of painful looking surgical implements that send a shiver down my spine. There are a few Georgia O’Keeffe prints on the walls. Am I the only person in the world who knows she just painted pussies and gave them flower names? I always get a little embarrassed looking at them in a public place.
    I sniff the air. The absence of smell makes me nervous.
    I feel like I’m waiting for something excruciating to befall me. I’m all alone in this little windowless room. I hate small spaces. They make me feel crowded and too big for my own body. I lay my head back and try to relax but I only end up searching the ceiling for any possible escape hatches.
    The door opens and in walks Sonja. I know it’s Sonja because her name tag says so. Sonja is dressed, or rather, barely dressed, in clothing that leaves nothing to the imagination. She has explosive tits (Donny and Marie) that she must’ve spent an hour coaxing into a red T-shirt that’s a good two sizes too small. She has on a black leather skirt that she must’ve bought over in the children’s section because it certainly doesn’t cover a grown woman’s ass. Long, wild-ass blond hair and pouty lips. Paula the Receptionist was right. I like Sonja.
    Sonja locks the door behind her. I guess she recognizes the panic in my face and thinks I may be a flight risk.
    I try not to openly gawk at her as she walks up to the side of my chair.
    “Hi.” I smile.
    She doesn’t say a word. Maybe she doesn’t speak English. I’m thinking about trying out my high school French, but when she takes my face in both her hands, I can’t remember a damn thing. I can say how are you in seven different languages, but right now I can’t even remember how to say it in English. I am mesmerized by her green eyes. Green with little flecks of gold. And those damn lips. The image of those full lips sears itself into my brain.
    Then Sonja does the most amazing thing. She leans over me, her hard nipples brushing across my