Incense at Dusk: .12.07.02. - something liquid [rosa saks]

December 07, 2002

.12.07.02. - something liquid [rosa saks]

[atlantic city boardwalk]

(rosa saks)
11 p.m.

The Boardwalk was deserted tonight. The amusement piers were closed due to the inclement weather (who, after all, wants to be whipped around on a rollercoaster at 50 miles per hour in such frigid conditions), and might well not fully reopen until spring. Thus, the few tourists who slid their way through the early winter storm toward the storm-gray coast remained - almost exclusively - in the snug warm confines of the casinos littering the waterfront. From the front door of her shop, Rosa can see the lights of the Tropicana, where the shoreline bulges out and the Boardwalk follows the line of the coast - like some strange Sodom, some arrogant Gomorrah, the worst of its sins: bad taste.

She smiles faintly, and steps back from the entrance, allowing the door to swing closed behind her. It's been two hours since the last customer darkened her door, and the pale companionship of the radio does little to fill the silent space. Circling the counter, she squats down and switches the sound system from radio to CD player. The recent CD from KD Lang and Tony Bennett is already in there, cued up and waiting, and the harsh, shallow humor of the local disc jocket is replaced by warm sounds of good old-fashioned crooned-tunes. In the shadow of so many casinos, it seems appropriate somehow.

Lights from the front windows spill across the dark wet planks of the boardwalk, gleam in the few patches of ice that remain in front of the small shop. Though many business owners did not even bother to open this weekend, Rosa was out early in the morning, shoveling the scant few inches of snow and sleet off the path and onto the sand beyond and salting down whatever remained after the scrap of her shovel against wooden boards. Warm yellow light, then, from the windows. Gleaming neon red, from the cool neon tubes outlining the windows, from the stylized silhouette of a woman outlined in neon, shifting every five seconds from demure to flirtacious - neon skirt rising as neon arm lowers in homage to delicacy, from the flowing '50s script that announces the name: Rosalie's. Below, in smaller block neon print: Fine Tattoo Art.

Within: the figure of a woman - slender, but swallowed by an oversized sweater, thick cableknit, a myriad of muted colors; bare scalp stark amidst the light, which, indirect and muted though it is, seems painfully bright in contrast to the darkened boardwalk. She's far from idle, leaning over the counter, weight resting against her midsection, elbows planted alongside, calculated the day's take and entering the day's receipts, taxes, expenses and so on in an old-fashioned leather bound ledger that lays open in front of her.

11 p.m. Closing time.

(nakhti)
there is something liquid in the muscle that moves skin and bone, something reflective of the waves in ebb and flow from the sandy shores, its the frigid sea breeze that combs through shadow-dark locks surrounding chilled-pale face, black-gloved hands embrace the snow scattered railing, perhaps to keep the flesh-tingling breeze from blowing slender frame away altogether, tips of the long black coat whipped around his knees kept warm with the rest of long legs by tailored to be fitting pinstripe pants which either clash or comfortably meld with the silky tunic's long collar peeking emperor purple from between fluttering lapels

there is a serenity in hazel gaze, green flecks within melted browns watching the clouds roll across the black velvet sky, throat bared in noble blessed challenge to the oncoming rush of air which recently scoured the ocean's ever undulating surface

though it seems he has gotten his fill

a slow rotation (.... there is something liquid....) on the balls of feet to point the young man towards the boardwalk shops, curiosity's gleaming wonder the sudden magnetic attraction to pull him from the railing and window-shop what this mall has to offer, the vast array of souvenirs and clothing and jewelry - and finally something that catches his eye, something shining far brighter than any gem

steps soft and sure bring him to the tattoo parlor window - Rosalie's - breath fogging the distance between himself and the glass as eyes dance across the flashart lining the walls, the red neon warming his skin in it's flirtatiously demure flashes, perhaps he sees the woman leaning on the counter within, closing up the shop, tallying within the leather ledger..... perhaps he is simply too interested in studying the snippets of art

(rosa)
It's all surprisingly... tasteful, really. If the Queen Mum had a rebellious streak and opened up a tattoo parlor, it might look like this: clean white walls, accented with muted reds and grays and blacks, clean-lined retro-50s chairs lining the walls, just beneath the flashart - in this case, a few framed photographs of this tattoo or that.

Some are older - the quality of the photograph, of the paper, the overexposure, perhaps, too much flash, too much open shutter - anchors and mermaids, ships cresting waves, sailors and soldier's mascots, three strong arms lined up in a row revealing a buzzing bee and the incomprehensible military slang that identifies them as friends and privates and company members off to war in Vietnam. Others are more recent: blackwork, sharp, stylized tribals photographed in black and white, long shadows highlighting embracing the limb like the curtains on a stage, bared skin gone white against the flare of a flash, fleshy details receding as the strong lines of the tattoo are brought out.

The tattoos themselves are no more extraordinary than those done by any reputable parlor in any substantial city, though the lack of the usual patterned grotesqueries (barbed roses twining about a skull, death's figure grinning and flashing a bared reaper) is more remarkable, given the city, given the location, and on and on and so on.

Some moments later (it did not take long. In the winter - the spare season, the bare season, the season of waste and want - it never took long to tally the day's earnings and collect the checks and cash for bank deposit.) Rosa straightens and gathers her things: camera and sketchbook and deposit bag tucked into a slim leather backpack, heavy down coat donned, woolen cap tugged on her bare skull, scarf tossed 'roung her neck, edges trailing down her back like vestigal wings. The parlor's door swings open and she takes to quick steps out, then one sharp step back, abrupt and surprised to find someone just outside. Either it was impossible to see through the glare against the windows, on dark nights, or she had been absorbed in her work and paying no attention.

"I'm sorry," she offers, more figure of speech than apology. "I didn't realize anyone was out here. You weren't wanting to look inside, were you? I've just closed."

(nakhti)
his eyes had wandered over the images and flash like a bedouin roaming the desert's fluxating dunes, to and fro in idle contemplation, searching for that enlightenment which comes from active participation in the study and understanding of what it is that is lain before him

the slide of focus is smooth, and a soft smile ghosts across his features, climbing into the myriad depths of swirled green and brown eyes, shadowed hair sways in the slow shake of his head (it's allright) one hand lifting so gloved fingers point at the corner of right eye then sweep towards the windows in flattened plane (i was only looking)

(rosa)
"Alright then," Rosa responds quietly, the flat intonation of her alright so very reminiscent of her mother's speech that the saying must be true: somewhere along the line, we all turn into our mothers. Her smile is nothing like her mother's smile, though, and neither are her eyes. Her smile is gentle where her mother's smile was sharp, and her eyes are sharp and alert where her mother's eyes were gentle and dulled to distance. "I'll just shut off the lights and lock up."

Shifting to the ball of her backmost foot, she pivots 'round and reaches to flick off the lights. First the buttery interior lights, then the neon tubes around the windows, then the sign, and at last - at last - the animated silhouette, infinitely more endowed than ever she was, than ever she will be. The sudden absence of light, the sudden flood of shadows. She watches them with still, close attention: the familiar lines of the waiting area suddenly bathed in long, reaching shadows that bend and shift and overlap, a thousand shades of darkness, a thousand colors of night.

At last, the door closes with a gentle thud. Bells jangle and keys scrape in the lock. She looks up and catches the stranger's gaze once more, bemused. "I'll trust that you aren't intent on robbery. Winter's my slow season, so you're not like to get much, even if you were. I'm open most nights, though, so if you see something you like, you're always welcome to return."

(nakhti)
he watches the slow shutdown of lights, the slow reclamation of the shop by shadows and thicker, deeper, inkblot darkness, automatically, his pupils dilate, a quick flash of green glitter before yet another shift occurs in the turn back to the woman beside him

and once more his head only shakes

gaze drops to his lifting arm, indicating hers should follow, and right hand wraps around left wrist, dragging the fabric of his coatsleeve upwards, revealing beneath imperial purple the pale skin of inner arm trapped beneath sprawling black ink shining of a well-taken care of piece, a band circles his wrist, etched flesh supporting lines and bands that swirl round from a pattern that sneaks from the back of his hand beneath the glove - cartoums lay beside each other in an Egyptian collar, the shortest on the sides of his arm, and the longest prowling over vein and muscle towards the crook of elbow, and while the sides have been filled with strange symbols, the center one is empty

that is to what he points, before the eyes lift again (it is business, not robbery) with the ghosting smile, wrist tapped as if he wore a watch (what time do you open) in silent question

(rosa)
"Two to six tomorrow," she remarks, absent-voiced as she studies the tattoo. Her eyes are shadowed now, the irises murky and dark, the color impossible to discern. Above them, a winged brow rises: question, silent, vestigal politeness, for she is already reaching for his arm, drawing it forward as she leans back and out of the light, tilting her head to study the work. Her fingers are warm and calloused, the grip light and clinical, somehow impersonal. The schedule ticks off automatically, autonomically. "Closed Monday and Tuesday, noon to eight Wednesday and Thursday, open late Friday and Saturday."

As abruptly as she reached for him, Rosa releases his arm and allows it to fall away. "Nice work." she comments, with a lifting nod in the vague direction of his arm. "Though if you're looking to finish it, it'd be best to have the person who did the rest finish it. I know, ink is ink, but even if I could reproduce it prick by prick, I think it might still look off.

"Of course," she continues, with a flashfire grin. "I'm a perfectionist, so you should take everything I say with a whole shaker of salt."

(nakhti)
there isn't an ounce of resistance to the pull, head tilting to listen, shoulder dropping in one fluid motion that draws resultant wave through dark hair during this consideration of her words, hazel eyes once more falling as if to already see what unfolds for his arm as they tandemly study it

when released, it lifts, elbow tucking to waist, fingers hovering just below his mouth, just below quirked grin, and drops, chin to chest (thank you) slice through air, amusement's glitter in his eyes, the weight of his shoulders reverses to propel slim form through a turn, finding his way further into the night's inviting snow-cast darkness

Posted by nakhti at December 07, 2002 12:00 AM

Comments