“What does this mean?” the tattoo artist asks.
“Second to the right,” Pete sighs heavily, with the air of someone who is explaining something for the ten thousandth fucking time. “And straight on until morning.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It’s my address.”
“It’s what.” Peter decides not to dignify such an obvious question with a response. “…You want your address inked on you?”
He nods, taps her fingers against the counter. “I’m super forgetful.” A girl walks by outside the window, the twenty third he’s seen in the past seven minutes. There’s a Catholic school down the road, grades six to twelve, classes must’ve just let out.
He likes this one though.
“So, I’m like way busy today, but we can do it two days from now, yes? Around eleven?”