Traditional style tattoo of a black cat peeking over a red heart, framed by white daisies and dark green leaves, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black cat and red heart on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A black cat with yellow eyes peers over the edge of a solid red heart, with its tail curling up along the left side. Two white daisies with orange centres and dark green leaves sit at the lower left and upper right. Bold black outlines and flat fills dominate, with small areas of grey shading on the cat and leaves.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain has been coming sideways across the market since eight, and by eleven the paving outside the fish stall is a shallow mirror. You have sold two bunches of daisies and one argument about the price of them. The black cat under your trestle table has not moved for an hour, only its yellow eyes, which follow every boot that passes.

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It isn't yours. Nobody's, according to the bakery man, though he feeds it the crusts of his pasties and it comes back for them. Its tail curls round the table leg like a question mark you keep meaning to answer. When a lad on a skateboard slides past and nearly clips your buckets, the cat rises, arches, and sits again, unimpressed, and you find yourself laughing out loud for the first time since the van broke down on the ring road.

By half past twelve the rain thins to a grey drizzle and the stallholders start packing away. A woman in a yellow mac stops at your table, looks at the last three bunches, and asks for the ones with the fewest brown edges. You tie them with string from your apron pocket. When she asks whose cat it is, you tell her the truth: nobody's, but it has sat at your table since the rain started, and you have begun leaving it a saucer of milk.

After she leaves, you turn round to find the cat has climbed into the empty galvanised bucket and sits with its front paws on the rim, eyes half closed, as if it has decided this stall is its stall now and the daisies were only ever a rumour. You leave it there. The market will be wet again next Sunday, and you already know which of you will be waiting.

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