The man’s entire left arm is covered in intricate swirls and patterns, large, lush flowers, all of them done in bright, beautiful colors.
“Are those bees?” Dean asks, pointing at the man’s bicep.
Slowly, the tattoo artist lifts his head and he squints up at Dean. “Yes, they are,” he replies simply.
Dean’s tongue suddenly swells and he doesn’t know what else to say. The face staring back at him is so unbelievably gorgeous it takes his breath away. As cliché as it is, he can’t help but study him in detail, the soft swell of his lips, a dusty pink, his painfully blue eyes, ringed with smudged eyeliner, topped off with a crop of chocolate colored hair, artfully tousled. He’s wearing a heather gray vest with the cover of an old Smith’s record printed onto the front.
“Are you interested in getting some work done today?” he asks.