I didn't send the letter to Baby Momma.
When Y was finally done and I got to see the finished result, I was SO glad I had sucked it up and done it right away. I am so much happier with it now - before, it had been so lightly drawn it had faded so much that it just looked like I had drawn them on with a Sharpie. Now, the black is filled in completely, and the surrounding red and the writing on my wrist make it look like an actual tattoo.
We went to the front desk when we were done, so I could pay the balance remaining after my deposit. While I was rifling through my purse, we discussed the Black Dahlia sketches, and I confessed to him that they were too cartooney, that I was looking for something more realistic, more portraity. He then suggested that I might want to check out Peace's work, the owner of the shop, who had been tattooing a very tattooed man at the station beside me. I agreed with relief that maybe I should check out his portfolio, though I also suggested that i could email Y with more pictures of what exactly I wanted. I left with the whole thing kinda open-ended, which suited me perfectly.
A few hours after I got home tonight, I perused Peace's portfolio, and decided that I definitely wanted to go with him. I am going to leave it for a few weeks - which, since I am running out of cash, I kinda have to do anyway - and then I am going to ask Peace to sketch up my Black Dahlia.
When I got home from the tattoo parlor, Bf was sitting on the couch in his jacket, looking something up on the computer. For whatever reason things have been a little cold between us the past few days, and tonight was no exception. I think it may be coming mostly from me, as right now, every little thing I hear about Baby Momma gets my hackles up.
When I got home tonight, we just sat in our chairs on opposite sides of the room, barely speaking. We would each try to start a conversation, and it would last for two or three sentences, before we would fade back into an awkward silence. Finally, I had had enough, and stormed ut of the living room and into the kitchen, where I started banging dishes around as I tidied up.
Bf appeared behind me just as a tear escaped and slid down my face. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me at the sink. I leaned back against his chest, and rested my head on his shoulder.
"Why are you crying?" he asked as he turned me around to face him.
"I don't know," I said miserably, hating how whiny and girl-like I sounded. "I just feel like you're mad at me or something."
"Why would I be mad at you?" he asked.
"I don't know," I sighed.
"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.
"Nothing," I replied. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," he echoed.
"Do you want to hang out with me?" I blurted out.
"Yes," he said. "Do you want to hang out with me?"
"Yes!" I cried, frustrated.
We stared at each other for a moment, then Bf offered me his hand. I turned off the tap and let him lead me out of the kitchen and back to the living room.
We decided we would go out for dinner. Gradually the tension eased up throughout the evening, and by the time we got back home, we were back in out regular groove, talking and laughing and cuddling up to watch t.v. together. He oohed and aahed over my fixed tattoo, and I gave him a back massage, and when we went to bed, we were finally reconnected again.
Must be the power of the nin tattoo.