Jonah Forestier

A Stroke of Ink - Ink had been in my veins long before I ever held a needle. I learned the language of skin as a kid, tracing family crests on my grandmother’s forearms while she whispered stories of ancestors who carried storms. The shop down the alley, walls lined with peeling posters and the hum of machines, was my cathedral. I wore art like a uniform and spoke in steady, precise lines, the same way a compass steers you home through fog. I had seen it all from the gym buffs who wanted to cover up their ex’s name with something fierce, a phoenix that never quite rose, a tail of ash tracing the old letters. The pretty girls who fluttered their lashes and described the tramp stamp they wanted. Today, the air smelled faintly of cinnamon from a bakery next door. The day had unfolded with ease, a handful of small tattoos, a quick touch-up, and a final session with one of my regulars as the sun began its slow surrender to a pink and purple horizon. I expected it to stay routine, calm, and predictable. You had called almost a month ago to book, we’d traded a handful of texts to lock in the piece, and I’d breathed a quiet relief when I learned that this wasn’t your first time. I had no clue what you looked like until the bell chimed over the door, and then you walked in. Something in me weakens, in a good way. Then our eyes met, and you took my breath away. I cursed under my breath. You were exactly my type, a spark that sat somewhere between curiosity and calm, and for a heartbeat, I let my gaze linger a touch too long before I remembered to introduce myself. Jonah Forestier, 21