"Trent! Damn it, Trent, where's the pink paint? I asked Eva to order it a week ago, didn't I? Did she seriously forget to add it to the invoice again? I swear, I'll strangle her on the spo..."

Trent lifted his head from the notebook he was doodling flying fat cats in - because why not? - and smirked. The sharp smell of tattoo ink hung in the air, mixing with the faint citrus scent of the shop's air freshener. "Whoa, boss, no need to resort to violence! First off, it's a criminal offense. Second, it totally screws with your karma." He set everything aside, the paper rustling softly, got up from the spray paint splattered stool, and walked over to his workspace, the floor creaking under his weight as he rummaged in a small cabinet, revealing the missing jar.

"I've got it. You know all the colored paint usually ends up in my kingdom of multicolored tattoos." As proof, he waved it in the air, the plastic jar making a soft sloshing sound so his boss, and part-time owner of the "Black Cat Luck" tattoo parlors, would finally switch from anger to mercy and stop threatening his employees with violence.

The lanky man in his forties, sporting more tattoos than skin, sighed and crossed something out with a flourish on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard. The scratching of the pen echoed in the otherwise quiet shop. He looked back at Trent and thoughtfully hummed, as if building tension.

"You do know we're opening a new shop soon, right?"

Trent, back at his notebook, nodded affirmatively. The tip of his pen tapped rhythmically against the paper. "Yep, the 'Cat' is thriving. So? Need something special for the opening?"

"Nah, not exactly. But it just so happens that the new place is gonna be staffed entirely by newbies."

"My condolences to the people who live in that neighborhood."

"Ha-ha, Trent, comedy gold. Newbies and you."

The guy raised his eyebrows. Is he serious now?

"Wait. You're sticking me with a bunch of overenthusiastic noobs in a freshly opened tattoo parlor?"

"Exactly. Someone's gotta babysit. Congrats - you're now the nanny, daddy, and shining beacon of tattooing excellence they're all supposed to aspire to."

Trent finally sat down. It had only been two weeks since the new salon opened, and he was running around it like a mother hen with its ass on fire.

Shit was constantly happening. The newbies needed supervision - he went from one to another while they were tattooing, making sure they didn't fuck up fatally. In his free time, he explained, taught, and advised, while simultaneously taking on complex orders that inexperienced artists simply couldn't handle.

But he wasn't really complaining, just starting to get tired. The guys at the salon were cool, and he was waiting for everything to finally turn into a routine, for him not to have to hover over everyone like the father of a large tattoo family and breathe down their necks.

Sitting on a chair in the staff room, Trent opened his Subway chicken sandwich with a rustle, the savory aroma of grilled chicken and fresh vegetables filling the small space, stirring coffee with his other hand when the door creaked open and Roman, the salon administrator, poked his freckled head in.

"Um, Trent, bon appétit!..." he began timidly, and Trent, sighing, put his food on the table, the paper wrapper crinkling under the weight.

"Client, right?"

"Yeah, sorry. She has some kind of complicated request, the guys are afraid to take it. Sorry about your lunch again..."

Trent waved him off, adjusting his beanie so it sat comfortably on his head. "Don't worry about it. But if it's some super basic tattoo even a newbie could handle, I'm sending you out for another sandwich on your dime." He grinned, already on his way through the half-empty parlor toward the reception desk, the sound of a distant radio playing indie rock growing louder as he approached.

"Hey there! Glad you're taking the leap for some ink. Let's see your design - or do you need me to draw one up first?" he called out to the client. She turned around.

Trent's heart literally dropped to his feet, a cold flush spreading across his face despite the warm shop temperature. It was you. Oh, holy fucking shit.

You. His high school crush. Memories flashed through his head like an awkward slideshow. Trent, then still going by Ramona, standing in front of you in the school hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, sweating and blushing like he had a fever, confessing his love in a classic cringe style that you couldn't forget for a long time, lying in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep because of what a disaster he was.

You had rejected him, very gently, but he hadn't talked to you since. Couldn't - too shy, embarrassed, all that teenage bullshit that made him take an extra lap around the block because you were going the same way.

Trent swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Would you even recognize him? Should he even say anything? Fuck, this was complicated.

He cleared his throat, stealing another glance at you. You were still cute. Cute-cute, like marshmallows. Or a Pomeranian. Like a Pomeranian chewing on a marshmallow. What the fuck kind of association is that, you idiot?!

"My name is Trent, and I'm, well, your tattoo artist."