A Part of Me
The needle lands like a heartbeat’s bite and Matthew’s forearm jerks at the first spark of pain, then settles into the warm, rolling thrum of the tattoo machine. He tastes the flavour of adrenaline mingling with the citrus-mint breath lozenge Nikki had slipped between his lips minutes ago.
Ink wells in the tiny wound, a glossy black tear that seeps into the shallow cut and disappears, absorbed, possessed. Nikki’s body wash, kiwi, drifts over the antiseptic sting. She stands at his shoulder, one palm cupping the inside of his wrist, the other smoothing the tiny hairs on his forearm as though calming a startled animal. Her touch is a low-voltage current, every stroke a reminder that skin exists to feel.
The artist, works in close, broad frame hunching like a priest over an altar. The parlour light is soft and amber, painting everything in tones of honey and dusk. Nikki leans closer, her dark chocolate hair falling like silk across his shoulder. Her whisper is warmth against the shell of his ear. “Remember to breathe, lover.”
He does, inhaling her scent, exhaling the ache. Needling continues: a slow drag, a pause, a wipe. Saline-soaked gauze sweeps along the line, smearing heat and cool in alternating waves. Sensation blooms outward, a feverish glow, like sunburn turning to pleasure under an ice cube.
The artist pauses, machine idling in his fist. “Spell the name for me before I commit to the next pass.” His voice is low, velvet over gravel.
Matthew blinks at the half-formed letters. “Nikki, with a K.”
Nikki’s laugh is a soft spark. She bends, hair brushing Matthew’s cheek, and corrects him for the thousandth delicious time. “With two K’s. N-I-K-K-I. Double the kick.”
Matthew’s pulse hammers where her fingers rest. “Autocorrect eats one,” he murmurs. “My body won’t.”
The artist grins, teeth bright. “Two K’s it is.” He lifts a fine marker and ghosts the missing letter, a teasing flick on Matthew’s tender flesh, then tilts the stencil so they both can see: bold, slanted, a flirt of calligraphy beneath the simple block.
Nikki studies it, eyes molten, lashes fanning. “Perfect,” she says, voice barely louder than the machine’s purr. She presses her lips to Matthew’s temple… cool gloss against fevered skin, then settles once more at his side.
The needle returns, deeper now, shading the first K, birthing the twin. Matthew’s breath fractures; Nikki’s thumb strokes the inside of his wrist in time with the machine’s rhythm. The vibration travels his bones, lighting nerves in slow-burn waves that crest and break beneath her touch. Each puncture feels oddly intimate, as though the artist is writing private vows in a language only blood and ink can read.
Sweat slips down Matthew’s spine; Nikki’s nails skim the damp cotton of his T-shirt, tracing a line that echoes every fresh needle-stroke.
The artist changes angle, his palm firm against Matthew’s skin, stretching it taut. “One last flourish,” he murmurs. The machine dives once more, filling the final I with a swoop. Matthew’s teeth sink into his bottom lip; Nikki catches the tiny tremor and presses closer, her breath drifting hot across his jaw.
When the machine finally winds down, silence blooms. The artist blots the tattoo, revealing letters shiny with plasma. He lays a cool compress that smells faintly of honey, then tapes clear film over the fresh art.
“Take a look,” he says, angling a small, round mirror.
Matthew lifts his arm. Against the flush of irritated skin, Nikki’s name lies clean and uncompromising: NIKKI, the twin K’s like open doors, invitation and promise. Tiny beads of clear fluid catch the parlour light, glimmering like dew on dark petals.
Nikki hovers her fingertips a hair’s breadth above the bandage, reverent. “I love that it’s already part of your pulse,” she whispers.
Matthew turns his wrist so the letters face his heart. “It always was,” he says, voice rough.
The artist removes his gloves with a snap. “Aftercare on the card,” he says, wry smile returning. “Wash gently. Moisturise. And no… vigorous friction for a few days.”
Nikki’s eyes spark with mischief. “We’ll be as gentle as we can manage.”
Matthew signs the waiver, hands still buzzing. Outside, twilight paints the pavement in lilac. The first street-lamp flares as Nikki laces her fingers through his, guiding him out the door. Warm air kisses the fresh tattoo; a pleasant sting answers.
They walk without hurry, the city blurring to sense and touch… distant traffic hush, neon reflected in puddles, the muffled clack of Nikki’s sandals. Every few steps she lifts his forearm, brushing her lips over the twin K’s through the film, sealing ink with heat.
“Three hundred and seventeen days,” she murmurs, eyes dancing. “Strange number. Feels… unrounded.”
Matthew’s grin is slow, wicked. “So we keep counting. Tomorrow makes three-one-eight.”
She presses closer, thigh against thigh. “And the next? What gets carved then?”
He kisses the corner of her mouth… a stolen taste of mint and desire. “Whatever part of me you ask for.”
The night answers with a warm breeze, sliding beneath the edge of the bandage. Ink throbs softly, alive under skin, spelling devotion in every beat. And as the city exhales around them, Nikki’s name pulses back: two K’s, one heart, bound now in living script.
