Covet Thy Neighbor

were almost an inch thick, the entire cross decorated with an intricately detailed black filigree that reminded me of wrought iron. Above the left branch, the word Mark, and below the same branch, 12:31. On the right, Matthew 5:44. My knowledge of Scripture was rusty, and I couldn’t quite recall the exact quotes, but they rang a bell somewhere in the back of my mind. A very loud, insistent bell. One that resonated into the pit of my stomach and piqued my curiosity— why can’t I remember these? —but also made me bite my tongue instead of asking Darren what verses they were.
    “This is a gorgeous design,” I said.
    “Thanks. A . . . friend drew it for me.” He paused. “My ex, actually.”
    “Really?” I looked at him, then at the design again. “You really want something your ex designed put on your skin permanently?”
    He laughed. “We’re still friends. It’s okay.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Trust me. We were completely amicable. Just realized we were better off as friends.” He nodded toward the design. “Any feelings I have tied up in that image have nothing to do with him.”
    “Oh.” I glanced at Darren. “Where do you want it?”
    “My back.” He tapped just below the base of his neck. “Between my shoulders.”
    I grinned. “Don’t want it on your forearm or something?”
    “No, thank you,” he said, laughing. “This one is for me. I’d just as soon not have to explain it to the congregation.”
    “Even if it’s a spiritual design?”
    “Like I said, this one is for me.”
    “Fair enough.” I scanned the design again. “It might be better to make it slightly larger than this. Maybe, I don’t know, fifteen percent bigger?”
    His Adam’s apple jumped. “Why?”
    “So the filigree detailing will be more crisp and distinct. And so the text is easier to read.”
    “Good point,” he said softly. “Sure. Yeah. That’ll work. So, how much?”
    I shook my head as I folded the paper. “Told you when you moved in. New neighbor discount.”
    “But, that’s a pretty good-sized design. It’s—”
    “Don’t worry about it.” I nodded toward the door. “Ready?”
    Darren blinked. “I . . . right now? ”
    “Why not?” I held up the folded paper. “You said you’ve been thinking about it for a while. Isn’t exactly something impulsive.”
    “Well, no.” He exhaled. “I just hadn’t quite . . . um . . .”
    “Hadn’t psyched yourself up for it?”
    “Yeah. That.”
    I chuckled. “That’s the quickest way to psych yourself out of it.”
    “All right. Then let’s do this before I do psych myself out.”
    We left his apartment and headed down to my shop. As I unlocked the front door, I said, “I should warn you. Tattoos are addictive.”
    He eyed my arms. “Are they, now?”
    “Very.”
    “Even with the pain?”
    I flashed him a grin. “Who says it’s in spite of the pain?” His eyebrows jumped, and I laughed. Then I opened the door and waved him in ahead of me. “You’ll understand in a few minutes.”
    He gulped, but went into the dark shop.
    I turned the deadbolt and didn’t light up the Open sign. There wouldn’t be a lot of people out this time of night anyway, so I wasn’t too worried about attempted walk-ins. I flicked on the light in the back of the shop, leaving the front half dark while pouring plenty of bright light over my workstation.
    “So.” Darren eyed the vacant chairs. “Where do you want me?”
    Upstairs in my—
    “Just relax for now. Sit wherever’s comfortable.” I opened the laptop and turned on the scanner. “I still need to make a stencil.”
    “Oh. Okay, then.” He leaned against the counter.
    “And you can fill out the Hold Harmless waiver while I do this.” I handed him the form and a pen.
    After he’d handed it back with his signature on it, he said, “So how long do you think this will take?”
    “Which part?” I went through the motions of scanning the design on autopilot. “The stencil? Or the tattoo?”
    “The tattoo.”
    “Depends on how many times you pass out.”
    He didn’t respond, so I glanced over my shoulder. His eyes were wide and forehead creased.
    I laughed. “I’m kidding. Relax. At this size and with the level of detail, figure about an hour and a half.”
    He gulped. “That long?”
    “It won’t be as bad as you’re thinking it is.” I gestured at one of my inked forearms. “Trust me.”
    “So did you do any of that yourself?” he asked. “Your tattoos, I