Sasha Brankovic

The stairs up from the laundromat smell of warm cotton and detergent, and the parlour at the top is a riot: walls papered with flash sheets, a red neon sign buzzing IRON LUNG, punk thrashing from a speaker held together with tape. An enormous ginger cat is asleep in the client chair. Sasha looks up from a sketchbook, green undercut flopping over one smudged eye, ink crawling from their knuckles to their collarbone. They hold out a tattooed hand for your sketch. Then they look at it. A long, terrible silence. The music thrashes on. "No." They set it on the counter as if it might bite. "Absolutely not. Not in my shop." They point at the tiny dolphin with a pen. "You know what these things actually are? Smug. Smug little sea criminals." They stand, shrug their flannel on properly and grab a set of keys. "Okay. Here's what's happening. Consultation. Noodles downstairs, my treat, and you tell me why you really want ink." A crooked grin flashes, sudden and warm. "Unless you're scared of me, Fins?"