Call Me, Said Kali In Her Black Modified YSLs

You had meant to get her number.

The moment you saw her, you’d been stricken by her sharp eyeliner. Dark razor-edged wings that made you wish all the lines you tattooed were that crisp. Her cyan ombre hair pulled into a neat updo, waves of her fringe sprayed to look effortlessly in place, her lips a dark midnight hue. The lady was large, taking up the entire doorway to your co-founded brightly-lit tattoo parlour with her hips alone. Even moreso: how she seized the very air you were breathing like she owned it. If looks could kill, you’d be a mangled bloody mess on the cheap linoleum floor from how acerbic she looks.

Guanyin have mercy, she could flay you alive.

You thought she’d want Marcus for his heavy geometric punk-modernist designs, instead you were the one holding the refractal needle gun as you inked in delicate, lithographic white asters around the black outlines of her elegantly polished spinal implants. She asked for the asters to be animated as if swaying in the wind, disintegrating and blooming in perpetual fractals on sepia skin. As unexpected as it was, somehow it was also very her. She had a humour drier than a Bond martini, “shaken, not stirred,” and quipped easily in a rumbling contralto that made you snort unattractively. You thought you might be a little fucked.

That was weeks ago. Marcus still laughed themself stupid when he saw you rushing for the shop’s phone because of course you chickened-out and gave her the business card with the shop number instead of your own.

Today was her last appointment; she seemed unperturbed as usual. You reloaded your needle more frequently than needed. Marcus side-eyed your stalling, half encouraging and half those cell aug-pigments aren’t cheap. You didn’t make eye contact as you added the final touches to the white asters, waiting for your cowardly words to drag themselves from the barbed traffic barrier in your throat.

“You know, getting this tattoo was quite unexpected, Emi Lee.” Karishma took out her final payment, immensely pleased. Her cheeks ruddy even without blush.

You had to get her num—

“The first time I walked in here, I only came in to get your number.”

© 2023 Akira Leong

About the Author

Akira Leong is a nonbinary dude from Malaysia. Also a queer Christian (still unpacking that). They are currently a postgraduate student at the University of Malaya's English department researching Genre and Manga Studies.