2019-08-06 - Needles in New York

On a muggy, warm, sticky early-August day, Itzhak pushes open the door of Pens and Needles. He sets his mirrored sunglasses on top of his curly black hair, looking around to find someone to talk to. Tall dude, rangy, he's wearing a tight heather-gray tank top, jeans worn thin and soft, and steel-toe workboots. He's got several visible tattoos, including what's obviously prison ink on his knuckles. STAY DOWN.

Oh yeah, and that nose the guy has on him. It enters a room five minutes before he does.

Needless to say, a tattoo parlor in a small town isn't the busiest of locations. But oddly enough, there are enough memoirs and tattoos (probably of memoirs) to keep the place lucrative enough to stay open. And there are tattooists masochistic enough to rent out one of the booths. The first, belonging to the more well-known Geoff, seems empty for the day. The silver-haired woman that oh-so-professionally emerges from her own booth is straddling a rolling stool with a back-rest, and while she doesn't exactly move to man the front desk, she is visible.

"Hey. Welcome to... well, all that shit. What's up?" Lex's hair has been drawn back in a long braid, though that does little to keep the shorter layers from falling forward to frame her face. She's dressed in a pair of high-waisted black pants, kept up by suspenders over a red tank top. Modern-day overalls. Sorta.

Itzhak upnods, his expression neutral-to-irritated. "Howyadoin. Want something added to my sleeve." He offers his left arm for inspection. The sleeve is of pomegranates, with branches of long slim leaves, and the brilliant orange flower that becomes the fruit. It's elaborate and full color in an illustrative style. "Looked over the studio portfolio online. Who's you?"

He's got a classic New York accent that could strip paint.

"Lex. Or if the fucker put my full name," -- 'the fucker' being whoever put up the website, that is -- "Alexandria Falco. People who want me to be nice call me Lex." Ah, good, a tattooist in a wonderful mood. Then again, her company doesn't seem to be all that much happier.

"First. You're on the wrong side of the fuckin' country." Her own accent is some bastardization of Spanglish and Seattle-ite. With a bit of Gray Harbor thrown in. Hey, at least you can make out words, right? "Second... I pass your portfolio stalking, or you wanna come back when somebody else is painting?" Well, at least 'bad mood' makes for 'up front'...

Itzhak's lip half curls in what could be a snarl or a smirk. Or a little mix of both, like a combo pack. "No fuckin' shit, lady, I noticed when there ain't no falafel carts or bums who wanna blow me for five bucks." He hooks a thumb in a belt loop, eyeing Lex with annoyed amusement. "You're the one I wanted. I like your hand on organic lines and I think ya coloring is real good. You up to pullin' the thorn out of your ass for it or should I come back?"

Annoyed amusement. She needs to work on getting that one down. Whether she was considering this, or whatever she was sort-of staring at behind him, his announcement that she was his actual target has a pierced 'brow arching. As for the thorn? There's a bark of laughter, a single loud, but probably more sincere than anything else he's going to get out of her at the moment.

"I can tat with more than a thorn up my ass, sweetheart," she notes. "But if you insist, I'm chargin' a removal fee." See, look how charmingly insincere that smile is. "You got a name?"

"I got a name, and I got cash. You wanna hear my project or not?" Itzhak hikes his eyebrows at Lex, saucy in a real asshole kinda way. Sure, Lex can turn him down, so she can go back to sitting in an empty booth not earning any money, that's what those eyebrows are telling her.

"Hey, hey, mijo..." she's drawling, trusting the man to recognize the tidbit of Spanish. Friendly, yes? "Know for a fact that you've dealt with worse mouths than me." She's tipping her chin toward the prison tats, and then lifting a 'brow. "What's your project?"

Itzhak flexes his fingers when Lex looks at them, unconsciously. He sniffs, hard, and lets that comment pass. "Show ya." Digging out his phone, he pulls up pictures of olive branches. Slim silvery leaves and ripe, round fruit. Itzhak leans over the counter, propping himself up on one elbow so he can reach over and let Lex see the screen. "I left room in my sleeve for this kinda thing." She can see what he means, most likely: spaces that are harmoniously set in the art so they're not obviously blank.

Slipping into 'I need to get paid' mode, Lex is actually looking at the offered picture. Hell, she even takes the phone, if he'll let her. Either way, jade green eyes are going between the sleeve and the desired addition several times before flickering back to Itzhak himself. "You want a template, or freehand? Template, I'm gonna need to get some digitals of your arm. Freehand, we can do some sketching now and see what you think." Eyes seeking his, at this point. "Pick your poison."

Itzhak does let her take his phone, despite a twinge from long-honed instincts not to let anything he values out of his hands. He shushes the urge, watches Lex silently.

"For this? Freehand." The cranky jerk is offering her a lot of trust there, and as his hazel eyes meet hers, he says, "Name's Itzhak. Nicetameetcha, Lex."

Freehand. It seems she didn't expect him to take the 'trust' option, for his decision has her looking towards his features once more. Trying to get a read on him, perhaps? Her own have lost some of the built-in irritation he was greeted with, though a guardedness remains. She may not be a street-hardened New Yorker, but she's certainly not the product of a small town. "Itzhak," she echoes his name with a nod, and reaches sidelong to lift the hinged portion of the front desk to let him into the back area. "One sitting, or you wanna split it up?"

Itzhak presents some difficulties for getting a read on. Tough guys don't usually have extensive tattoos of flowers and fruit. His other tattoo, on his other shoulder, is more a standard mechanic thing, a hyperrealistic sparkplug with two wrenches crossed below it like a Jolly Roger. Here he's verbally sparring with her, but asks for a freehand. And he hasn't hit on her even a little bit. All of the above could easily combine to give him a gay-as-hell vibe.

He slips through, taking the drawbridge to lower it behind him. "Ehh. You wanna go until one of us cries uncle?" And he really smirks at her then, less flirtation than a challenge.

Gay-as-hell, indeed. If Lex were inclined toward flirting at the moment, the fruit and flowers probably would've stalled that a bit. Probably. Either way, it doesn't seem like she's going to give him any hell in that department. She's still holding his phone, using the universal finger-spread zoom here and there, before looking up again and then nodding him toward the second booth. If he'd looked at her profile online, he'd recognize many of the pieces that decorate the walls, with presentation ranging from professionally framed to what looks like a photo booth strip. Artistic chaos at its' best.

"Babe... you don't got enough skin left on that arm to take me down," she notes in reply to 'call uncle', though the smirk he receives in return is an eerily accurate mirror of his own. "Take a seat." She gestures toward the easily recognizable tattoo chair, then glances back at his arm. "E-mail this to me?" She asks as she returns his phone to him, be it to his hand or onto the chair. She rattles off an e-mail address undoubtedly given to her by the shot, even as she spins her stool around to flip open a laptop. "Highest resolution you got."

"Mmm, I'll have to think a somethin' else sometime, give you a challenge." Itzhak's tone, up-and-down with Yiddish influence, is definitely amused now. He takes his phone back, gets her the images (like a smart boy, he'd found high-rez ones in the first place), then stuffs it back into a snug pocket. He doesn't sit, instead studying all the art, on skin and off, that decorates the booth. "Kinda like bein' inside your brain, in here. I like it. Lots going on. Lotta colors."

Creepy?

Lex is blissfully silent for the time it takes her to pull up the image and set it full-screen on the laptop, using the hinged stand it's perched on to adjust the angle for herself. It's then, and only then, that she's addressing his commentary on her work. Looking first at the New Yorker, and then glancing around her own booth, as if regarding the place from a new point of view. "... yeah, kinda. Except there are way more roses and angel wings up there than I got floatin' around in my head. The color, though, yeah. Some specialize in black and white. I respect it... but I'd take color over it any day." A real shocker, as almost every part of her exposed body is covered in expertly saturated ink. Lotta colors, indeed.

"You gonna tell me what's up with the olive branches and pomegranates, or should I make up my own story?" She doesn't sound flippant. If anything, she sounds more friendly now than she has since he entered the shop. Moving around the area via rolling stool, to gather the various supplies.

Itzhak snorts, laughing. "That's fair. I don't think a whole lot about angel wings and roses either." He leans close to get in the personal space of the pictures. "Sure, I'll tell ya. Seven species of fruit and grain represent Israel. Wheat, barley, dates, grapes, figs, and olives and pomegranates." He taps his forearm absently, on one of the pomegranates. This particular one is split open and spilling jewel-like seeds. "Had this, I dunno, six years or so? Completely, I mean. It took a while. I left them spaces in it so I could add in the other species, or whatever, but I never..." now he's hesitating, his attitude softening for just a moment. "I never wanted to before. I wanna now."

Lex is glancing up from her prep-work as he actually answers, 'brow raised in a flicker of surprise as he actually answers. Expecting more banter, no doubt. Certainly not an actual response. "It's good work," she offers after a moment, tipping her chin toward the sleeved arm in question. "But if you found some reason for an olive branch in Gray Fucking Harbor, then you're one lucky son of a bitch."

Itzhak turns to glance over his shoulder, his smile crooked and melancholy. "Thanks. And, I didn't find my reason in Gray Fuckin' Harbor." His complicatedly-hazel eyes focus on Lex, really seeing her. "I found it over There."

Then, like he didn't drop that bomb, he slings his tall frame into the chair.

There. While most would be confused by the phrase, by his emphasis, it doesn't even have Lex hesitating. A glance upward, perhaps, but nothing enough to stall her in gathering the routine equipment. In fact, it's not until she's gathered the necessary kit that she even ventures a response. "Then you got the fuckin' golden ticket. I ain't got nothing from There that I wouldn't mind giving a lobotomy. You wanna keep your shirt on? Probably won't get anything on it, but if it does, consider this your warning." She switches topics seamlessly -- as though speaking of the Veil were just another normal part of life. It sort of is, in Gray Harbor.

Itzhak considers, shrugs, reaches over his head to grab the back of his shirt collar and strip it off. Probably not a surprise that he's got another tattoo underneath. This one's on his left pec, over his heart, and isn't immediately decipherable. It's calligraphic script forming a fancy circular shape, in something that isn't English.

Also, he has nipple piercings, neatly taped down.

"Yeah. I did. First time, you know, and hit some kinda jackpot, because everybody else I ever talked to been There? They never wanna go back. From what they tell me, I can't blame 'em. It just...wasn't like that for me." He turns his face away, almost shy, as if realizing he's talking too much. "Ehh, you ain't here to shrink my head."

"No... I'm here to draw on you with needles. But I'm gonna let you in on a little secret..." She speaks a bit slower as she begins to prep his arm, giving the actual work priority as far as her focus is concerned. The slower drawl brings out a bit more of the Spanish undertone, typically buried under the brassier street slang. "It gets boring as fuck after a while, if nobody's talking. I can put somethin' on Pandora, if you'd prefer music to talking. Just no death metal, because fuck.... that shit's designed to make people angry. You don't want people with needles in your arm angry."

"I sure as fuck don't," Itzhak says with a wry huff of a laugh. "Hell, I'll bend ya ear. You can put Pandora on too if you want. Something with violin. Maybe some Bach, you like Bach? Nobody can get angry at Bach, right?"

He settles in, watching Lex with lively curiosity as she goes about her tasks. The scents of the antiseptic and the marker are familiar, soothing in their way. Soon he won't have anything to do or think about except those needles. He kind of can't wait.

"I can get angry at just about anything, if you get me on the right speed ball..." Lex is drawling her response to his mention of classical music, though there's an undertone of humor -- however dark -- in her words. "But typically, no, I don't go anything personal against violins." Speaking of which, she's pausing before actually putting on the first set of gloves to toy with the laptop again, shrinking down the picture to pull up the promised Pandora. Tapping the few necessary keys to set off the playlist, and then returning to the image.

"You don't got to talk, if you don't want to. But if half a decade taught me anything, it's how to be a good listener." A pause, and then a slight smirk, should he be looking at her to notice. "Or pretend to be, anyway. Really depends on how interesting you are. I think I might pay attention to you."

Pandora picks "Concerto in A Minor" to start off. Itzhak is in fact looking at Lex, studying her, really, with a genuine interest. He doesn't say anything long enough for it easily to be weird. Eventually what he comes up with is, "Nah, I'm boring unless you like snakes, violins, or cars, in that order. Or, I guess I gotta add tattoos on that." He shrugs with eyebrows alone. It's very Jewish. Out of nowhere he adds, "I picked good. You're gonna do it just right."

She's back to fiddling with the antiseptic, razors and gloves, though there's a slight smirk as he rattles off his favored topics. "Motorcycle. I lived in the city for half a decade... a bike was easier to just... get around. Fuck parking lots." She turns toward him, holding a razor that would be hard to differentiate from your standard Bic. Except it could probably slice a jugular. "Hold still," she warns needlessly, as she applies just enough cream to the to-be-victimized skin to keep the razor from taking off anything more than the slightest hair. As for how long that takes? Well, it'd depend on just how hairy he is.

"I fuck around with a guitar sometimes.... got no opinion on snakes... and I'm pretty into tattoos." Another half-smirk, even as she continues to shave his arm. "Yeah? You like my work with a razor, or you just got a thing for smart asses?" Teasing, and for once, without an edge.

Luckily for them both, Itzhak isn't much hairy, at least in the region that requires shaving. He obediently holds very, very still. "Must be the smartasses," he says, one side of his mobile mouth curled up. "I know my own. I like ya brain," he actually hitches his eyebrows over at the walls, moving only them. He can do more talking with those than some people can do with their entire faces. "And you got the song. I can hear it in you. You're real strong. Almost as strong as me." His tone is a little teasing over a big sincerity.

Fortunate for Itzhak, Lex finishes with that razor before he reaches that last statement. Not that she would've cut him, exactly... but it does have her pausing as she wipes away the remaining shaving lotion with a clean towel. Whereas Itzhak seems to have mastered expression via his eyebrows, the young woman seems to have made 'unreadable' an art form. At least if you're looking for something deeper than the predictable smirk or glance. His mention of the 'song'? That earns a look that has nothing to do with The Face that she mastered so long ago. There's a slight uneasiness in the gaze, but also curiosity. Wary curiosity. "Most people see it. A glow, or shine. You hear music?" Genuine curiosity, as she uses the antiseptic swab over a large portion of his bicep. One area at a time... but tackling the largest first.

Itzhak winces, half comically, and half not comically. "I shouldn'ta said that while you had a razor. Bad timing, it ain't a great trait in a musician." Now he's studying her again, maybe a crack of concern showing through the attitude. Unreadability isn't too much of a thing with him; if nothing else, those eyebrows are like barometers. He's weird to try to figure out, but when he's thinking something, it comes through clear. "People always tell me they see it. I hear a song. I'm the only one I know hears a song. Nobody ever told me they hear it."

One corner of her lips curve upward at his mention of timing, and perhaps suggesting that she can manipulate her expression when she so chooses, the glance she tips him may as well be audible. It's going to take more than that to cause any damage. After half a decade of inking the more interesting population of deep Seattle, the silver-haired woman has managed to stone her composure. At least in this. Needles. Pain and beauty, mingling visibly.

"What do I sound like? Or is it the same song for everybody?" She questions after finishing with the antiseptic snap-swab. It's tossed into the nearby garbage, and he'd hear the tell-tale sound of a lid being snapping off a skin marker for the first time. "You want to check the sketch before I start with the coil, or just dive in?"

Laughing again, Itzhak protests at that glance, "I make it a policy never to surprise a woman who's holding a sharp implement." He breathes out as she swabs him. Soon. "Everybody's different. Sometimes people are different wtihin a theme, like different movements of a symphony. Some are simple. Some are real complex. Yours is like that. Lots going on." He wriggles long, calloused fingers for the sketch. "Gimme. I can't wait that long."

"Lots going on," she echoes his description of her, her tone sounding more validating than curious. She may not hear what he hears, but whatever it is, it was enough to convince him under a smart-mouthed twenty-three-year old's coil. "Patience, Maestro," she's teasing as he reaches toward her, even using her ungloved hand to nudge his fingers carefully away from the cleaned area. "I'm all about bad life decisions, but when it comes to ink in someone's skin... ain't rushin' that shit." And neither should he, says her tone.

Regardless, he doesn't have to wait long. An experienced hand uses the cool tip of the marker to lay down basic perspective and ratio, before he'd hear the familiar buzz of an actual tattoo machine. "I guess I should be glad I'm not like... Ba Ba Black Sheep or somethin'...." is her return to the talk of music, even as narrow fingers press into his bicep, and the burning sting of the needle begins.

Itzhak pulls in a deep breath as the needles hit, a sustained gasp. He sighs it out, relaxing. "Hah. I'm no maestro. I'm a fiddler. Haven't dedicated a lot of time to classical in a while." He's doing it again, watching Lex, a somewhat pained little smile lingering on his face, the corners of his eyes tightened. "Nobody sounds that simple. The thing is, I can't even describe how people sound. I can't even play it. I'd need some crazy instrument with five necks and twenty seven strings, tuned to a scale that I'm pretty sure don't exist. Had a friend suggest it could be done with a synthesizer, I dunno nothin' about those though. I'm an acoustic guy. Mmf." A quiet grunt as she lays down ink. "You sound, ugh, hard to even pick something, but...Mahler, maybe."

"Synthesizers got their place and all... but most of the time people use'm, it's 'cause they're tryin' to hide somethin'. I prefer acoustic." Whether she feels his gaze or not -- .. how could she not, considering? -- she isn't looking away from the tattoo. She seems to have split whatever part of herself handles speech from the part that works with the ink. That said, the quick banter has been replaced by the slower drawl. He's paying her for a decent tattoo, not witty conversation. "Mahler, huh? I'll take that as a compliment." Certainly complex, if nothing else. "I... see colors." There's a slight smirk, self-directed, as she puts to words what he'd all but guessed about her. With no more than a look and some cheeky commentary. "If I hadn't grown up here, knowin' what it was... I'd've thought I'd been roofied by My Little Pony. Christ. 'Least you ain't fucking neon. I hate the neons."

"Yeah, Mahler. Real pretty, but dark, kinda. Disturbing sometimes." That this may be less than flattering doesn't occur to him. "Colors, seriously?" Itzhak is Intrigued. His gaze flicks past Lex to the walls of her art. All those colors, they're not just for aesthetics, maybe. "That's gevaldik, what kinda colors?" Then he grins, quick. "Ain't never thought of myself as neon, so it's nice that I'm not. Someone else said she sees glitter." Rather belatedly, he asks, "Is this weird? I mean, havin' some guy show up and start talkin' about, y'know, it? Maybe I shoulda thought of that, just, I could hear ya so clear."

"Yeah, colors. Not like... this cardboard cut-out around here, but more like... hell, like somebody got colorful smoke machines all over the place, if that... makes sense?" No, Lex. No, it does not. "It's different for everyone. And sometimes different on the same person." The shoulder that isn't supporting the tattoo gun shrugs, making it clear enough that she knows he's watching her. Even if she can't watch him back. Not the same way, anyway. "Glitter makes me think of fuckin' Twilight. I haven't met any vampires yet, so she should get that checked." She pauses after his last statement, though it's up to him to decide if it's because of a particularly detailed area of the tattoo or to actually think. Perhaps both? Her expression remains annoying unscrutable, and her eyes on her work. His work?

"No. I wish more people would just talk about it. I know it's fucked up, and people like to pretend everything's fine... but Christ. A lantern almost killed me a while back. Fucking museums. Just... take my word for it, don't go to any fucking museums in Gray Harbor."

"Yeah, yeah yeah, smoke machines, that makes sense." Itzhak is completely serious about it, too. "Like those YouTubes they squirt ink in water, you know the ones, right?" He has to struggle not to laugh when Lex says 'fuckin Twilight', and winds up grinning helplessly. "Quit with the jokes, ya too funny. I'm gonna laugh and mess it up." He sobers, only a little. "I ain't been here so long. Moved here in May. Seen some pretty fucked up shit since then. But I seen some beautiful things, too. ...Aww, I like museums."

Does that smirk look just a bit self-satisfied when he calls her funny? Maybe. But considering the source, and the man's lingering grin, she's earned that sliver of ego. "Like I said... I grew up here," she offers after a while, having let the silence stretch out long enough for the classical music from the laptop to actually dominate the shop for a moment. Just a moment. "'Til I was sixteen, anyway. Moved to Seattle. Not sure why, but I came back a few months back. Things in Seattle were going sideways, and I'd conveniently forgotten just how fucked up this place is." True story.

"You wouldn't've liked this museum. And I think I got a bunch of people like... banned or somethin'... for, uh, throwing the lantern at the tour guide. Death lamp tries to kill us all, and the bitch has the nerve to whine about furniture out of place..."

Itzhak lets the not-talking happen as long as Lex wants it. There is fine Bach playing, it's perfectly okay. When she does talk, he listens, then says, curiously, "Did you have it when you were a kid? The song, I mean." He looks impressed and interested. "Okay, so, exactly how did a lantern try to kill you?" Then he has to not laugh again. "Guess you disturbed her feng shui. Blocked the energy comin' from the display of ancient dildos."

It's Lex's turn to laugh, as he gets around to 'ancient dildos', and it speaks well of her own long-engrained control over her hands that the unexpected laugh doesn't have her so much as shifting against him. But he'd see the smile. The surprise at that smile. But then she's sobering again, continuing to fill in those empty spaces across his arm, as she offers, "I was young. Younger than most, I think? I don't really remember much... before, but I think I was about seven. I lived with my Gram, and she... had a song."

If only because it's an easier topic, she's offering, "Well, far as I could tell, wherever the fucker lit up, these ghost hands kept trying to strangle people. Some stupid bitch picked it up, even after I said somethin'." A well-earned snort. "A guy tried to knock it out've her hands, but she held on. So I... turned it off. It was all really fucking anticlimactic, 'cept both of my roommates had slipped fuckin' There... but that's just Gray Harbor for you, right?"

The curl to Itzhak's mouth is self-satisfied, even though he risked his tattoo getting a stray line. The story of how he got it would have been worth it.

He mmms wordlessly in response to the tale of the murderlamp. "Yeah. Guess that's just Gray Fukkin' Harbor for you. Good call on the turnin' it off. ...Ya roommates find their way back?

"A few days later, yeah. Took'm about that long to start fucking, too, ironically." That's supposed to be a joke. Right? It might've worked, in the dark and surly way, if the tattooist's tone hadn't turned to stone. A moment is left to pass in that charmingly awkward silence, before she's drawing an audible breath and offering a more socially appropriate, "Any inanimate objects try to kill you yet?"

Itzhak just hikes his eyebrows, doing more talking with them. Even he knows it'd be polite to ignore that statement. Plus, there's the thing about the woman putting needles in him getting pissed off. Discretion, way the better part of valor.

"Not yet," is what he opts to say, "but they'll get around to it sooner or later. Bet I could kick their ass first though."

Yeah. Needles and anger are generally a bad idea. ... But who said stone-face means anger? Whatever it means or doesn't mean, Itzhak is offering up a much-needed change of topic. His words have Lex snorting softly.

"You can only do that if they have an ass... and careful, 'cause some of those fuckers can get Tim Burton level creepy. I avoid owning anything with a cord." Well, that's comforting.

Itzhak really thinks about that one, rolling the visual around in his head. "Ehhh, fair. I'll make a note. Cords, they're problems." He's a little wincey, but he's settling into the weirdly enjoyable buzz of the needles, watching ink sink into his skin. "Like in Beetlejuice when the sculptures come to life?"

Hey, he knows his Tim Burton.

"... I wasn't gonna name the movie, but if you insist," Lex is drawling, and if he glances back at the woman, he'd see an amused, albeit wry, smirk. "That flat guy that slides outta the wall? Don't be surprised if you run into him some time, dependin' on whose dream you trip into." The warning sounds a little too close to 'take my word for it' than anyone would like to hope. Except maybe Tim Burton.

"Almost done with the colors," she informs, probably needlessly. "You know the line work's gonna be kind of a bitch right?" Needles on already-raw skin. Always fun.

Honestly surprised, Itzhak says, "Why not? Oh, you think it might happen, with the saying the name three times?" His instinct is to dismiss that as ridiculous, but he reconsiders. "Yeah a'ight. I know," he says, about the lines, "hit me, chief."

"Beetlejuice? No, I mean the flattened guy when they're down in that... hell place. He like... slides outta the wall?" She doesn't seem to be guarding her speech quite so carefully at this point, though it's up to him to decide whether that's an indication of comfort level or increased distraction with the tattoo. After all, 'finishing touches' tend to also be the ones that 'fuck shit up', if done incorrectly.

"I'd take actual Beetlejuice over pretty much anything else that's come at me recently. I like his hair."

Itzhak grunts low in his chest as Lex starts on the lines. "Oh yeah. That fuckin' hurts." His voice drops to a growl, his eyes closing. "Yeah. Guy slides outta the wall." He's echoing her since the pain pushes most other thoughts out of his mind.

"Sorry," Lex murmurs without any actual remorse, her tone too distracted as she hones in on the finer details of the tattoo. "Just listen to the music, aigh'?" As if he needs coaching. Or perhaps she's dismissing herself from the current conversation? Whatever she meant to say, she is falling silent as she shifts full focus onto bringing the free-hand artwork to life. A while passes like that -- probably a long while, as far as how it feels -- before she's wiping that damned cloth across his arm a last time.

"I'm impressed," she notes, rolling back on her stool and reaching for a piece of damp gauze to wipe away anything that the dry cloth missed. "Not a lot of people can sit that long. You wanna take a look?" She's upnodding toward a mirror in the corner of the booth, which appears large enough to make any assortment of tattoo-locations visible.

Itzhak's sweating by the end of it, a sheen rising on his forehead. With his other hand he raps out the syncopation of whatever classical violin song Pandora picks next, occasionally muttering a random tidbit about it. ("Ya know they say Paganini sold his soul to the devil to be a musical genius?")

He can't hold back the shuddery sigh of relief when she finally has mercy on him. "Jesus, lady, I'll tell you whatever you want," he jokes, opening his eyes a little blearily on Lex, his curly black forelock sticking to his face. "Gimme a second." He looks drunk or stoned or possibly like he just got railed nice and hard. Or, you know, in other words, like it's the end of a long session in the chair. Some people are into it. He seems to be one.

So he sits there, forcing himself to breathe deep and slow, until the wooziness fades and he can get up without risking passing out on the way up. He keeps a hand on the back of the chair, though, as he checks himself out.

Slowly a brilliant smile blooms on his face. "That's gorgeous. I'm not just sayin' that because of the endorphins."

Lex may have escaped the needles themselves, but the time she's spent focused in on the artwork takes it's toll. There's not weariness, exactly, but with him upright and happy, she's rolling tattooed shoulders back with a few audible pops. "Good. 'cause judgin' by your color, you could take me on." There's a slight smirk at that, and this one is weary. She stands long enough to spin the stool around, with the back rest in the front, now serving as an armrest. She leans on the thing, chin tilted just a bit, as she looks toward him. Or at least at something in his direction. "But I'm glad you like it. The rest of the sleeve's beautiful, so random spots of 'that's really shitty' would kinda fuck things up."

Like everybody who just got a tattoo, Itzhak admires himself, rotating his arm this way and that. He smirks at her in the reflection. "As much ink as you have, you'd out-tough me without blinking. Yeah, I fuckin' love it. Knew you'd do me right. This ...this is important to me." He turns to her, careful, still one hand on the chair. "What do I owe ya?"

Her arms folded over the back of the chair, Lex is letting her chin rest atop colored forearms. Watching him examine the tattoo, and huffing a soft snort at the mention of her own ink. Considering what's visible of her seems nearly blocked-in from the neck-down, God only knows what part of her hasn't been marked in some way. "I'd say a fuckin' lot," she murmurs, flickering a look toward the clock. It wasn't a quick process. "But I got this weird feeling that I should go with 'you owe me one'." A pause, and then quieter, "And when I end up fucking needing it... you sure as hell better follow through."

Itzhak didn't expect that answer. He leans one elbow on the top of the chair, tipping his head to one side, regarding Lex for a loooong moment. His eyes are hazel, clear yet strongly striated, like agate.

"That what you want?" he says, his tone serious, now, all sardonic amusement gone. "You sure you wanna trust me with something like that? I could be a flake. I could be anything."

She regards him with that same seriousness, though she doesn't raise her chin from her forearms. If she did, she may break eye contact -- and she's not. "I been around the block a few times, mijo. You... get a feel for people. And if I got your feel wrong, then that's on me. Worst case scenario? I'm out a few hundred bucks and in whatever shit situation I'd be in anyway. If I'm right, then maybe that shit situation won't end up quite as bad. The way things been goin' lately, I'll take the gamble."

Itzhak sniffs, mouth quirking. A dozen thoughts whip past those hazel eyes, flickering microexpressions. He's the one who drops eye contact, shifting his gaze to Lex's shoulder. "Can't argue with that. A lady knows what she wants, who am I to say otherwise?" A step or two over to her, and he's offering her his hand. "Deal."

Lex is finally sitting back, if only because the handshake requires she free one of those arms. Tattooed hand meets tattooed hand, and while her own may be notably smaller, the grip is firm. "You got my number? Swear to God, they got it posted fourteen different places in here." A mildly irritated look around the tattoo shop. There are, indeed, 'Contact Information' signs posted here and there, which undoubtedly include said number.

"I think I got that handled." Itzhak's back to that tone where everything could be construed as an insult, somehow. He gets out his phone, however, and shoots Lex a text, so she has his number, too. "Promise me you won't drunk text me, I'm not that kinda girl." Oh, he thinks he's hilarious. He snags his shirt. Then, actually a little awkwardly, he doesn't look at Lex while putting it on (careful not to scrape the howlingly tender skin). "Listen, I appreciate ya working on me."

"'course. You want me to wrap you up, or you prefer doin' that on your own?" A nod toward his increasingly angry looking arm. It's going to be a fun few days.

"Wrap me up. Christ, I need a cigarette." Itzhak lets her go ahead with that, all shiny and embalmed. Then, before he heads out, he gets out his wallet, hands over a couple of bills with old Ben Franklin on them. "Tip," he says, raising his eyebrows at her like he's daring her to say no again.

She doesn't refuse the money, though she does offer a nice roll of her eyes. He's not the only one who can talk without his mouth. "Thanks. See you around, New York."