I am standing in the changing room of a lingerie boutique. The wallpaper is pearl grey and finely striped, with the sheen of satin. The floorboards are stripped, polished wood, covered with a red silk rug. There's a small window with four panes of glass and in the corner under it is a chaise-longue upholstered in gold and red. It is so clean, so well thought out, so rich the way the grey and the red and gold and the brown of the wood speak to each other. My uncared-for feet are red and purple and white on the beautiful carpet. I shouldn't be here.
(The tattooist was delicately tiny, her long bubblegum-pink hair tied back. Her eyes were full of concentration as the needle bit in, stinging hotly. Her arms were covered with ink, dragons made of flowers and women melting into flame. Her lip was pierced with a silver ring)