secretly freaky & chronically un-sneezy

January 3rd - The New Year’s Ball was a disaster. If not for Ambrose, I hardly know what I would have done. He found me in a back room, already delirious and - But I can’t speak of it, even here…partly because of its disgusting nature, and partly because of the affection it brought out in me. Which is more mortifying? All I can say is how grateful I am to Ambrose. Things could have been much worse.

At any rate, I must be stronger. Will return to work tomorrow. I am wanted in L____, where there is a land sale to be arranged. I am quite well enough to go. Healthy exertion will put all these thoughts out of my mind. 

January 4th - Trip to L_____ brought nothing but misfortune. All the household there was sick with congestion, and Mr. ______, in addition to driving a terribly hard bargain, coughed every other word. But the real troubles began on the return journey. The left front wheel of the carriage sank into a concealed hollow under the snow. The sky was very bleak, and bitter cold seeped into the carriage interior until my nose ran in complaint. We were stuck in the snow for hours and did not reach home until after sundown. I’m afraid I cursed at everyone, and kicked the side of the carriage like a child in tantrum. My driver is a good man, but he will like me even less now than he already did. The devil take my temper…

But how could I help it, in the midst of panic and frustration? I was so close to being well again. Feel unusually tired now, but hopefully that will be mended by morning. I cannot afford to be ill again so soon.

January 5th - Awoke late, with a sore throat and a feeling of great dread. I did my best to overcome any weakness by persistent activity. I went for a short ride, and chopped wood until I came over faint. Nonetheless, I only found that the cold moved from my throat to my head and nose. Servants finally persuaded me to take supper lying down. They will talk. I refuse to call for Dr. _____, though. That will only confirm the gossip, and further damage my reputation. Half of E_____ County already thinks of me as fragile.

January 6th - Attempted to work from bed. At least correspondence can be attended to. However, I blotted the ink so many times due to ill-timed sneezes that I soon gave up the effort. Am now lying in bed alone. Everything is dull and I feel unconscionably sorry for myself. Fever has set in - I know myself well enough to say I will likely only worsen from here. Will sleep again. [Page has clearly been sneezed on.]

January 7th - Felt utterly pathetic and miserable all day. All I can think about are Ambrose’s arms around me. I physically ache with longing to be held. How can I return to my lonely existence after being shown such kindness? Such a happy memory…it torments me because it can never be repeated. He was a saint, but no one is saint enough to want to know me after I’ve spent a whole night sneezing myself silly into their hand, an absolute mess. And I said such needy, adoring things…I hope I am misremembering…what an embarrassment.

Must stop writing or I will go to pieces again. 

January 8th - Oh Ambrose, Ambrose, Ambrose. There is light in the world after all! How do these gifts fall into my lap? He feels as I do. That he could forgive me, even want me, after seeing me this way…I am overcome.

You’d chosen the right side of your upper back, just a few inches off from your shoulder blade. In a sectioned off corner of the studio belonging to your artist, you take off your jumper to reveal a tank top, one you’d chosen for easy access to the shoulder. They gently clean the area with rubbing alcohol and apply the stencil. After checking the position of it in the mirror, you’re told to lie down on your stomach on the straightened out leather chair.

The artist pulls a small rolling chest of drawers nearer, the top of which is covered with a clean paper towel. Out comes a round cap of ink, richly opaque, a couple of popsicle sticks, and a bottle with a straw-like protrusion, filled with a clear liquid.

“Alright. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” You rest your chin on your other arm, and gaze at the framed designs hung up around the artist’s walled studio section.

A soft buzzing starts.

A warm, gloved hand gently rests on your back. It begins like a stroking of stiff brush bristles. You’re unsure if the process so far is particularly gentle, or if your pain tolerance is high.

“How long have you been tattooing for?” you ask, just as your back begins to tense a little.

“Me? About… five years…”

The strokes pause. You breathe out. You feel the gloved hand give the area a smooth caress with their thumb, and the tension eases a little.

“Sorry if I’m squirming,” you breathe out, as they begin to reposition.

“You’re fine… I’ll just…” Their voice is soft as they’d been getting a closer look, then you hear them draw back. You peek sideways. They appear calm and collected, but strangely quiet - you trust them to do this, and they haven’t given you a reason not to. “*snff!* I’ll just hold you down, if that’s okay.” they say with a bit of a chuckle.

“Fine by me,” you allow, with a grin.

The fingers of their gloved hand gently rest upon your back, their index finger and thumb of their non-dominant hand framing the stencilled area. It becomes a little rougher, like scraping. Your fingers curl, pressing together, wrapping around your thumb.

“You’re sitting pretty well,” they murmur softly, continuing with sharp focus.

There’s a pause. As you hear a bit of movement behind you, you hear a small sniff. With your gaze hovering over the framed artwork on the walls, you hear a soft, shallow gasp. What follows is a rather restrained-sounding sneeze, a desperate vocalization forced through clenched teeth. “rrRR’ESSCHHh-!!”

The chair jerks a little beneath you - they must have been leaning on it. “Bless you,” you say, and peek around at them. They’re facing away, an elbow held over their face.

Another reflexive gasp- “k’hiH-!” -and exhale. “-g’hhh… *snrf!*” Their arm lowers. “Thank you. So sorry.”

“It’s all good.”

You hear another sharp sniffle. You feel their hand gently pressing on you again. It stings as they continue, but you’re distracted by other things… “*hsnnnrk~*” Toward the end of a particularly hard stroke, you tense and then loosen when it stops. “You good?” they ask gently.

“Yep,” your eyes shut as they start again, one hand keeping you from moving.

You follow the sound of their voice, which every few words, “*snrf!*” is split up by sniffles, getting progressively wetter and *sdrff!* slowing the pace of their calming speech.

“*ak'hm! snf!* What's the story of this tattoo?"

...

"I used to, uh... *snNrfh* Uh, I used to go to this ode shop, to this ode guy... *hsnrf!* He agreed to train me."

...

"...And y'know what, I did get my heart broken. *sndrf!* But- *snNRFF!* That's just life. I just kept doing me. Doing my strange little projects..."

…

“You’re doing really well, *snrffh!*”

The needle pauses. You’re tempted to peek back, as you hear the wheels of their chair roll backward. “Oh gosh…” they mutter softly.

When you turn to look, their face is frozen - eyes shut, their brow slightly pinched.

“Sorry, hh-!” Quickly, their elbow flies back up to cover their face. “hAHt’TDSCHhh!! *snrk!* d’EEISCHHhh!! *snnrgk!* Agh, excuse mbe.”

“Bless you. You okay?”

“Yeah, I…” they begin, blinking shiny eyes. “Uh, would you happen to be wearing a scent of some sort?”

You pause. Then, “Yeah. Oh no, I’m sorry.”

“Ndo, it’s okay. I mean, if you’re cool with it, *sdrf!* I cad keep going, but…”

“Are you sure?”

“I cad, it’s almost dode. *ahem!* But I, *hsdrff!* I deed to blow mby dose first. Sorry. *hsnrk!*”

“Okay,” you hear yourself say, as they get up to grab tissues, pulling off their gloves. “I mean, you sure you’re good to continue?”

“Yeah, *snrf!*” They raise a folded tissue and blow their nose. “I think I just get more sneezy when my nose is stuffy. Be right back, I need to wash my hands,” they say, stepping out.

“You gonna try not to breathe?” you joke lightly as they go, eliciting a small chuckle.

“You betcha,” they play along. They reappear a few moments later, shaking out their hands a little. “Whew. I’m fine. You still cool?”

“As ice.”

They pull on another pair of gloves and sit down. You feel their fingers gently rest on your side again. “I hope not actually,” they breathe.

“Nope,” you exhale in a soft chuckle. You rest your head on your arms and go back to staring at the framed tattoo designs.

“That would suck…” they breathe, preparing to start again. “Just let me know if… Ooh. Wow. *hsnff!*”

“Still bothering you?”

“A little.” This, and they’re still going. You’re about to suggest another pause when one arrives abruptly - the strokes come to a stop, as does the buzzing, and their hands lift away from you.

“yY‘ISSCHHhhioo-!!”

The prolonged period of focus and determination culminates into one wrenching, desperate expulsion without a preparatory breath, again causing the chair to jerk slightly as they jackknife to the side. Mostly to the side - you feel a cool, ghostly mist on your back, and almost immediately feel heat rise to your cheeks.

“*snnrff!* Sorry, oh mby god.”

“No, it’s my bad,” you start to say, turning to look at them again. “Bless you.”

They’re wiping their eyes with their wrists, looking a bit at a loss. They have to stand up and remove their gloves again, then reach for more tissues. With little hesitation, they blow their nose hard, as if it really itches.