#ryo 01

She’d fallen out of the rhythm, almost. The greeting, the small talk, the trying to sell. Sell what? Her own art, which is an art in and of itself. A few months off can do a person good, maybe, and especially after an ordeal like hers... but really, she’s feeling rusty. That thought has just made Ingrid frown when the security system (quite thorough and very new) beeps, announcing an incoming customer. The tattoo artist rises to her feet but doesn’t approach, not immediately. Don’t want to seem like a predator, or worse, an eager beaver. So she just wanders forward instead, heavily tattooed arms folded as she nods to the drawings upon the wall that this newcomer gazes at. “That’s mostly the traditional stuff. Got some, uh, art deco over there... minimalist stuff too, if you’re into that sort of thing. Seems to be the trend as of late.” There, that’s small talk enough, right? Ingrid gives a nod, then. Introduction — that’s important, too. “I’m Ingrid. Own the place.” Not sure if he knows the stories, about the arson and the fighting and the, well, unpleasantness. Bullshit, she’d call it, but that’s not the sort of language one uses on the sales floor, right? “You ever had any work done?” A gesture to the art on display again, to specify the sort of work she means. Not that she’s determined to sell here, but it’s nice to know what she’s dealing with.