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now.”
    She smirked. “Oh, nine. Must be nice being a tattoo artist, your clients are probably all hung over anyway and stumbling in at noon.”
    That wasn’t exactly true but of course that was the stereotype of people with tattoos. Despite the popularity of shitty yet hot tattoo artist chicks and the locust swarm of hipsters, people still had the wrong idea about tattoos and the artists that gave them. They were untrustworthy, dirty, trashy and dishonest as a whole. Yet I’d tattooed valedictorians and soccer moms. I’d inked businessmen and actors. Reverends and teeny boppers. Tattoos were self-expression at its rawest and most permanent form. They weren’t for one set of people or another.
    Despite the facts, I was used to the stereotype. It wouldn’t die but then neither would I as long as I ignored it. Even Sophia, who met me because she got a fucking tattoo, clung on to it like it was the only way to describe me.
    Of course, the fact that I turned into a money launderer didn’t really help my case. I’d never much cared for what people thought of me.
    “I don’t care when they stumble in, as long as they let me use their body as a canvas.” Then I would continue to be immortal. My ink, my work, my
self
, would live on. I didn’t say that to her though ’cause that would definitely add another bar to the
my ex-husband is a nutjob
scale.
    Her features drew together. “So what are you going to do now?”
    “Now?”
    “Will you keep being a tattoo artist? Or will you try something else?”
    The way she said “something else” reminded me of the way my dad often talked about my choice of career.
    “One step at a time, Sophia,” I reminded her, easing myself to my feet. Sleeping on a thin couch never did my back any good and I had a strange feeling that I needed to be agile today.
    “Do you want me to make you coffee?” I asked, my head starting to ache for it.
    She studied for a moment before shaking her head. “Where are my manners? You stay. I’ll make it.”
    She swept herself into her tiny kitchen. “My father gave me one of those Keurig coffee makers for Christmas last year. I love it.”
    Her father. My eyes did another sweep of the room and even in the fuzzy dawn I noted things I hadn’t the night before. Flatscreen TV, not new though nothing to scoff at. Ikea couch that I’d slept on. Ben didn’t have an obscene amount of toys, but from the ones that I saw, they looked new. Despite Sophia telling me that her dickhead brothers never passed on a dime of my child support, she seemed to be doing well enough for herself. This could have been her father – always Mr. Madano to me – or her job (she was an aesthetician) or the government. It should have made me feel good inside, to know she was doing okay without my money going through, yet for some reason it made me more mad. It highlighted the money that was wasted. It made me feel like a fucking chump.
    The coffee machine whirred and spurted from the kitchen and in minutes I had a steaming cup of coffee in my hands. The mug had a picture of Ben on it, smiling, wearing reindeer antlers on his head.
    “You still take it black?” she asked.
    “Some thing’s don’t change,” I said with a nod, taking a sip. It tasted good. Not as good as I made it, but good enough. The way I did it took patience, as do all the best things in life.
    “You’re wearing glasses now,” she noted.
    I smiled and took them off, slipping them into my pocket. “I was just trying something. I’m putting my contacts back in.”
    I pulled out my cell and glanced at the time. 630AM. No calls or texts. I wasn’t really surprised.
    I cleared my throat as I sat down on the couch and Sophia hovered above me like a nervous bird, darting her head down for a quick sip.
    “How fast do you think you can get yourself packed up?” I asked, feeling like the neck of the hourglass was starting to widen. “I’ll help of course.”
    “Oh,” she said and shrugged, her face