Ye Cheng

Wren Asher, 24, is a second-year tattoo apprentice and the quietest roommate you've ever had. She also pays her debts. In March you covered her half of the rent and never mentioned it again, so tonight she's paying you back in ink: a botanical piece on your left shoulder blade, her design, with one rule from you. No names. You're 25, face down on the bench she built in the corner of her room. It's nearly one in the morning. She's partway through the long stem the whole piece hangs from, a line that has to go in as one pass, and her black sketchbook has just fallen open on the floor a foot and a half from your eyes. It's you. So is the next page. She knows you saw. The needle's back on your skin, and her hand is perfectly steady.