"Thank you, have a nice day!" I waved after the couple as they walked away together, hand in hand, the man kissing his wife on the cheek as she held the bunch of red roses he had just bought from me. I smiled as I turned away, clipping a few drooping leaves off the magnolia display. They fell to the ground with a dull rustle, chinks of sunlight patterning them as it shone through the various table legs and flowers that made up the front of my shop.

It was a lovely Spring morning, sunny yet crisp, and just cool enough to see your breath if you could be bothered to stop and watch it rise. The street, as usual, bustled with life: my favourite coffee shop just opposite was packed with chattering teenage girls on their phones, and businessmen and women tick-tacking away on their sleek black laptops and tablets while they sipped their drinks for extra bursts of money-making motivational energy; stretching down the lane were all manner of buildings - there was the game shop, crawling with young boys and their mothers that they had forced inside to try and beg them for the latest shooter game, and the post office, and just past that was a craft store, and then the toy store, and the shoe store. To the left of my humble flower shop was a jewellers, that I often liked to admire when I had spare time - though there was no way I could afford anything that came from that window display. To the right of me, which I liked to admire even more, was a tattoo parlour.

It was a small shop, yet it always seemed to have customers. From what I'd come to hear, the single artist that ran the parlour was extraordinarily talented and was the kind of person you honestly wouldn't expect to be in such a line of work. Though that was what people said, I found it just a smidgen difficult to believe the second opinion - as he was my neighbour, albeit one I hardly knew, I knew enough to find him a hardly surprising candidate for his trade; he was tall, messy haired, with more ink visible than skin, and just a tad intimidating. Not to say that I judge by appearances, but he honestly did look like what you'd imagine a tattoo artist to be.

As mentioned, I knew actually very little about him - I'd recognise him by sight, but not by name. Every lunch time we both seem to set up shop for an hour in unison, and both make our way to the coffee shop directly opposite. He buys an Americano and a blueberry muffin, and sits in a seat by the window, sketching in a dark blue leather-bound book as he picks away at his muffin. He never really seems to notice anyone around him, too busy with his pencil darting across the page. Watching him has become a habit of mine by now; I get my vanilla latte and my cinnamon swirl, and observe him as he silhouettes himself against the street beyond the glass.

Other regulars in the shop usually avoid sitting in his direct vicinity because of his off-putting appearance - older people, especially, who often comment disapprovingly on his tattoos. I don't agree with them though. His tattoos are wonderful - a black and white dragon snakes its way up his left arm, surrounded by sakura blossoms, and an array of white lilies and constellations of stars dot the other and weave up his neck on one side. I always wonder whether he did them himself, though at the same time I don't know how it could be possible to work so intricately at such difficult angles. I've never asked him, though I'd like to - but at the same time I never want to interrupt him. Whenever he draws there's this odd look in his eyes, and though I've never seen him smile, he always seems to be happiest when he fixes himself to that sketchbook.

The only time I can engage him though is when he's drawing - being so much taller than me, he makes it to the coffee shop far before I do, and when we leave there's a horde of eager people outside his shop waiting to be inked up so he's back in his parlour in an instant. I don't really think it pertinent to call on him after hours, even though our apartments are right next to one another above our shops. I guess it's not the end of the world, but all the same - I wish I knew just a little bit about someone who spent their life so close to me.

As I went to the coffee shop today, however, I was surprised to find myself doing so alone. I resumed my usual seat, and had managed to finish my food and drink without realising it, and yet still he hadn't appeared from his parlour. Though I tried to drag it out, it was obvious to the barista that I had finished, and there was nothing more for me to do but leave for my shop. It was almost time for me to open for the afternoon, anyway. As I waited for the light at the crossing to turn green, I saw the door to his shop open. A girl walked out, surrounded by a group of excitable friends. They were all admiring her shoulder, and as I crossed the road I was able to catch a glimpse of her new tattoo. It was a purple iris, with ink so delicate and bright it looked like the flower had just sunk into her skin and become a part of her. A translucent watercolour design surrounded it, like a beautiful abstract painting. I could hardly believe that something like that could have been done using only a needle and some ink. It looked so real. I now realised just what had taken him so long, for it was a truly elaborate design.

I didn't realise I had stopped to stare until the girls had moved on and I was left standing outside his shop with somewhat of a glaze over my eyes. I was about to move on and return to my own shop, but then the door opened again and the artist himself walked out. He seemed surprised to see me, but bowed his head in a polite sort of greeting. For a moment I didn't respond, before blurting out, "That iris was beautiful!"

He stopped, and turned his dark head to look at me. The faintest trace of what could have been a smile was at the very corner of his thin lip.

"Thanks," he said in a low, soft voice. I smiled awkwardly and, assuming he'd rather have his coffee than talk to me, turned to leave him in peace. "I draw them from you, you know."

"What?" I asked, looking back over my shoulder. He points to my shop, where a window display reveals a mass of irises in a large vase at the very front of the horde of flowers that could be seen beyond. I notice the blue book is held under his arm.

"I sketch your shop sometimes. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh - no, go ahead! I've seen some beautiful things from your shop, so I'm glad to help," I replied.

"I've seen some beautiful things from your shop, too," he said, and - with what could just have been another smile at me - he crosses the road and enters the coffee shop, the bell above the door tinkling behind him.