"Oh, of course. I did not mean to press." Johanne had never thought of herself as competition, exactly. She would be willing to let him sell her works with the profit almost completely going to him. It was worth it to be able to create that sort of art again; an art she had missed, an art she had been almost afraid to begin practising again. And then this shop seemed to fall out of the sky and Johanne was spinning with possibilities. But the young man extended the olive branch to her, and did not outright crush Johanne's hopes.
"Thank you, if you don't mind, I'll wait." She smiled gratefully at the young man, her eagerness now somewhat assuaged, knowing that she could have her questions answered in not too long. Now she could focus on the blond man as an individual, not just a means to an end. She introduced herself, hoping the young man would personalise himself, too. "My name is Johanne. Thank you so very much for all your help thus far." And she sent him a brilliant smile, sincere and genuine.
And at his words, she imagined a dark-skinned woman, with cloth wrapped around her face to protect her from prying Syna's eyes, a caravan trailing behind her. In that caravan were hundreds and hundreds of the precious Wadj sheets, as she peddled her wares to the towns she visited annually. And here, the blond man, stumbling back into the shop, his arms laden with sheets of the paper, the smell of the desert rising around him... She smiled at the image. "It must be an experience doing business with a desert-woman," she said, wistfully. Small-town Johanne could hardly imagine such an exotic thing. Ironic: being that she lived in a town where the fallen Ethaefal lived.
Johanne was glad this man, so severe though his face was, could speak with ease on pressed flowers and the beauty in book making. It made the waiting until the owner of the shop arrived all the more bearable, knowing that she could ramble on about her love of paper and words and he would not judge her: at least, not outwardly. His visage was always truly composed, though Johanne had noticed a frown flash across his face. It was gone before she could contemplate it, though, and wonder if it was directed at her. But she let the thought go: if he had a problem with her, it would become more and more obvious as they conversed, and then she could confront him.
"Art containing art, yes!" she said, happily, glad that he understood. "While the words are the true treasure, it makes sense for it to look beautiful as well, no? I am a tattoo artist, as I said. I have come to realise that beauty is not one thing, but the combination of every factor, so that they are balanced in perfect harmony." She nodded, seriously. Words and paper. Ink and flesh. Scars and skin. The moment before a kiss and the moment after. These are all the things that Johanne tried to balance so that she could live a truly beautiful life. It was something she was endlessly concerned with: worried that the words would not come if she had not enough ethereal and literary wonders in her world.
The young man's sentence trailed off, and before Johanne could ask what it was, his hand flashed out, quick as a fish, and grabbed Johanne's wrist. She tensed, unsure of what to do: being manhandled by a stranger was not something that she was used to. She stiffened, and aimed to pull her wrist away, before she noticed where his gaze went. Her heart sank. Here, another person who would misunderstand. Another who would think she was less-than-sane, depressed, suicidal. Another person who would not get to see the beauty in her scars. She prepared for a long explanation to an accusatory stare.
"This ... is a scar." Sighing, Johanne wrenched her wrist away, using it to push up the sleeves of both arms. The man would see her forearms, covered with scars: images of Leth, Syna. The Denvali Quay. Books and stiletto knives, stars and tattoo instruments, all carved into her skin and presenting as white, raised scars. "I have a lot of them." And she waited for the torrent of accusal, while she stood with her heart and soul on display: these scars were her heart.