Sipping my hot chocolate, I look outside at the rain belting against the window, hoping for a glimpse of my man. Daisy pulls the blind on the door, indicating the café is closing soon. Heaviness wraps around my heart and limbs. I don’t want to go home without seeing him at least once today. The days that I don’t are the hardest, and I live two buses and 30 miles away. It’s not an easy journey.
It’s been months since I found this town and found him. He’s yet to notice me, but I’m patiently waiting, and imagining my dream becoming a reality.
When I first encountered him, he roared past me on a stunning black motorbike. By the time I caught up to where he had parked, he was removing his helmet, revealing thick, messy blonde hair down to his shoulders.
Fine yet elaborate tattoos decorated biceps as big as rugby balls all the way to his fingertips. His thin white cotton t-shirt revealed a mass of dark ink lurking underneath before they crept up his neck, disappearing under his beard. All the ink was black, devoid of even a smidge of colour.
I’d never seen art like it. Having only been exposed to the usual random splashes of football badges, military symbols, or babies’ names before. I could not tear my eyes away. I wanted to touch him, brush my fingers over his skin, discard his clothes and examine him as if he were my subject under a microscope.
My next shock was his beautiful face, which was exposed when he removed his sunglasses. Intense emerald eyes locked with mine for a second and In that flash, I recognised a whirlwind of deep emotional pain.
That was when I knew he was the one.
As I got closer to him, my lips parted with a sharp inhale in preparation for whatever idiotic words I was about to say. However, he walked right past me as if I wasn’t there. Not even a second glance. I was of no interest to him.
The feeling wasn’t mutual.
If I had known it would be so difficult to find him again, I would have gone after him then. Instead, I stood at his bike, bearing the Ducati name, and breathed in the faint woody aroma he left behind. While I watched his huge, yet graceful body shrink into the distance.
For weeks I came back to that spot, trying different times and days with no luck. Undeterred and motivated by the need to see him again, I downloaded a map of the town and looked online for places that he might hang out at. Systematically, I crossed off each street, then area, before moving on.
It became my purpose, something to get up for each day. I covered bars, tattoo shops, bike sales and repair garages. I refused to give in to the possibility he had just been passing through. No. This was his town; I was positive.
Eventually, my detective work paid off. An old building listed as a martial arts studio had a courtyard out back used as a place to fix bikes. Too scared to go in, I crossed the road to get a better view and spied the body art plastered on the walls.
I couldn’t see him, but I just knew this was where I’d find him.
Armed with my laptop the next day, I set up camp in the café directly opposite. Giddy with excitement, I saw him again and again. Too timid to go over and speak to him, I found myself content with the surveillance. The longer I left it, the harder it became to take any action. He never struck me as friendly or approachable.
However, it was worth it as I got to know him, albeit from a distance.
Daisy, the owner, was so nosy. After my first week of staring out of the window, she put the thumbscrews on me, and I caved, asking if she knew his name.
She did.
She also told me he owned the building, that he is an incredible tattoo artist but, most of the time hangs out with his friend’s drinking beer. I hoped he didn’t ride his bike drunk.
’They aren’t the kind of guys you want to be involved with, honey,’ she lectured me. ‘I don’t mean they’re criminals or anything, but they are rough. Know what I’m saying?’
‘Not really.’
‘You look like a nice girl, you’re not their type. Trust me, I’ve only seen scanty sluts hanging out in there.’
Ignoring Daisy, I decided to let google tell me about Jake. That was his name, Jake Moreland. It took forever to find him. I kept getting this guy in the Royal Marines with the same name and nothing on my Jake.
Until, out of boredom, I clicked on the other guy and realised the two were the same.
Clicking on the photo of him in dress uniform attending the funeral of one of his fellow servicemen, once again I’m amazed this is the guy, I’ve been studying the past months. Old Jake has shorn hair that sits beneath his peaked cap, he has tanned skin, and no tattoos in sight. His clean-shaven face reveals full lips and chiselled bone structure. Almost a pretty boy if not for the solemn expression and rigid posture. He looked dedicated, a real good guy.
I found out what changed him.
An explosion in Afghanistan wiped out a complete military unit with only one survivor. Jake. The injuries he suffered were horrific, and he was quoted as saying, ‘He wished he had died.’
Sixty percent of his body was burned, 171 fractures in his bones from the blast, and more than fifty operations were required to remove shrapnel from his organs and reset his bones. A photo of him lying in his white boxers, displaying the damage, is not for the fainthearted.
Years later, once his body had healed, Jake began a transformation. This is detailed in a series of photos. Starting in the gym, learning to walk again on the treadmill, then progressing to pumping incredibly heavy weights, drinking shakes, and eating enormous but healthy meals. And leaving the best to last, he took the most extraordinary steps; the tattooing of his whole body to cover the burns and scars.
I couldn’t believe it.
I still can’t.
He couldn’t be any more perfect for me.
And if that hadn’t cemented us together. I also found out he is just a few years older than me, at 45, and we are both Aquarians.
Today is the day I’m going to talk to him.
Yes.
No.
Maybe tomorrow.
No. I don’t think I can do it.
Deep down though, I want to. I want him to see me and talk to me. I don’t have the confidence to approach him; he’s too intimidating. I should stay in the fantasy. If this becomes real and he rejects me, I don’t know if I could survive it. I’m safe this way.
My only other option is to transform myself into a scanty slut.
Leaving the cafe, the rain has eased slightly, so I do my daily walk down the street, pretending to look in the shop windows. I do this so I can cross the road and walk back on the side of his studio. It gives me the chance to sneak a peek inside. No one ever sees me; not only am I invisible to them, but they’re also too busy drinking, listening to thrash metal, and talking about bike engines.
A puddle lies right at the doorway, a car is coming, and I make a spontaneous decision to jump towards the studio as opposed to getting knocked down. It’s fine; I think the studio is empty.
Standing there, all I can see is my window at the cafe. I had no idea it was so visible from here.
‘Are you coming in, or are you using my doorway as an umbrella?’ A thick voice growls from behind me. Startled, I whip around to face Jake manspreading on an oversized red velvet and very battered couch. My heart starts beating like a heart attack.
‘What?’ I squeak.
‘Are you coming in?’
Oh shit. I tentatively creep in like I’m about to stand on a dog poo. My eyes do a brief sweep. The Ducati is resting against a wall looking like the trophy it rightfully is. Sleek, unique and polished so brilliantly I could do my mascara in its reflection.
I’m also checking no one else is here. It’s rare for him to be alone.
‘What do you want?’
‘Eh, well, you asked me in.’ I shrug.
‘If you’re looking for Trip, he’s not here.’
‘Who’s Trip?’
‘My partner.’
‘Oh, oh!’
He rolls his eyes. ’My business partner! The guy you have a crush on.’
‘Crush? Trip?’
‘Yeah, you’re always watching him from the café, looking over here at what we’re doing.’
My eyes twitch back at the front door a few times, scared someone will come in and interrupt this moment.
‘I, um, I need a tattoo.’ I nervously blurt out.
‘I think you’re in the wrong place darling,’ he says taking a swig of beer from his bottle and running his eyes over me. ‘You’re gorgeous, so I’m not complaining, but unless you have a bike that needs fixing or you’re here to entertain me, you’re in the wrong place.’
‘I need you.’
He chuckles and says something I don’t catch but I stand my ground, thrilled to finally be talking to him.
‘Amuse me, what ink are you thinking of?’
‘A butterfly.’
He points his beer bottle around the walls covered in some crazy tattoo art and I follow with my eyes. ‘See any butterflies you like?’
I don’t see anything I like, it’s all so manly and ugly. Jakes tattoos are good; why hasn’t he got better taste for his customers?
‘No, no, I don’t, but…’
‘Like I said, wrong place. We don’t have any butterflies. Get yourself along to the Glitzy Glow Tattoo Parlour; they have nice pretty butterflies, and lots of other pretty shit, like love hearts and sweet messages.’
‘I don’t want pretty. I want dramatic and dark. I want you.’
Jake nearly chokes on his beer. ‘You want a walk on the wild side? A spin on my bike?’ He’s mocking me. Although I would like to ride the bike.
His hand goes to his crotch. My research failed to tell me he was a complete dick.
‘I only want a tattoo.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I want a butterfly. I want to be beautiful, like you.’
‘Unbelievable,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
I have no choice. I drop my bag to the floor, followed by my jacket, and then my hands grab the hem of my hoodie.
‘Now we’re talking.’ Jake grins, sliding down further into the cushions, ready for a show.
This might be my only chance with him. I’ll have to strip to get his attention. I haven’t invested all this time to have him kick me out. I’ve spent so long wanting him, so many hours watching and deciding it should be him. He’s the one. I know it.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull my soft grey hoodie over my head bringing my white t-shirt with it. Goosebumps immediately pucker my skin from the chill, wildly aware he can now see my naked body from the waist up.
Silence.
Unable to look him in the eye, I study his hand wrapped around the beer bottle. Black ink shapes the bones in his hand and fingers like an x-ray. Even the nail beds and fingertips are tattooed. I think of his pain and shudder.
‘What happened to you?’ He sits upright.
Bringing my chin up, I straighten my spine and meet his eyes. ‘Cancer.’
He looks back to my flattened chest, ravished with scars in various directions. Remnants of the multiple operations I endured. The surgeon tried to salvage something in the beginning, gradually cutting away, until nothing was left.
‘Breast cancer,’ I add quietly. He motions to the long, deep angry looking scar running the full span of my torso. ‘It spread to my lungs.’ I explain. ‘And the black marks everywhere are radiation burns.’
Jake says nothing but his eyes widen slightly. I feel so ugly and don’t know whether to continue or not. However, with shaky hands, I manage to unbutton my faded jeans, pulling them down to my thighs. My finger runs across the scar on my lower belly. ‘Hysterectomy. The cancer spread to my ovaries and womb.’ I mindlessly outline a butterfly shape over my body.
Finally, I turn to the side. ‘It’s in my bones now, my hip…’
Large rough hands stop me and pull gently until I’m positioned in between his legs and facing him. I hear the cap pop off a marker then feel the tip of the pen as it begins to lick across my skin. Too nervous to watch him or what he’s doing, I focus over his head on a motorcycle poster.
Time passes, slowly, quickly; I have no idea. He doesn’t speak. I stay still, trying not to breathe from fear of interrupting him. A calmness comes to me, along with an excitement that this is finally happening. The experience is oddly sensual considering most of my nerve endings are dead.
What must be hours later, he stops, replacing the cap on the pen. Our eyes meet. His are no longer angry, replaced with a glassiness and emotion I can’t place. Steering me to the large mirror, I close my eyes again. Fear is now taking its grip, strangling me, and squeezing my lungs.
Jake stands behind me, his chest moulded to my back. Taking my long hair, he fists it in a ponytail with one hand, and strokes his other over my head, like he’s petting a dog. Soothing me, waiting, and giving me time to face my reflection.
Slowly, I peek.
Oh! How did he manage that with a pen?
Spreading his legs wide, he drops his chin on my head and tucks his arms through mine as he explains his creation. My scars are no longer visible having become the frame for the body and wings, feathering out at the edges hiding some burns.
I try to pay attention, but I’m stunned, this is so much more than I knew I wanted. The haunting darkness has burst through my chest, spilling out into this incredible elegant art. It’s only a sketch but already I feel it’s a part of me.
It’s dark but beautiful. It’s burlesque and sexy. I’ll be forever imprinted in the finest underwear. Jake points out a few places for colour, small touches to bring out the design.
I knew he was the one.
I knew it as soon as I saw his tattoos that day.
‘It’s perfect, Jake.’ I whisper.
Word count (2500)
