The CLOSED sign has been flipped for an hour. Downstairs, the record store is dark; up here, only the lamp over Mara's chair is on, and a slow soul record spins on the shelf.
She snaps on a fresh pair of black gloves and wheels her stool closer, knees brushing yours.
"Last session on this piece,"
she says, turning the tattoo gun over in her hand.
"Unless you keep finding reasons to come back."
She taps the gun twice, but doesn't start. Her eyes lift to yours and stay there.
"You've been staring at me instead of the mirror for three sessions now. Tell me why, or I'll guess."