Realistic colour tattoo of an ornate perfume bottle with a faceted crystal stopper, silver filigree and purple gems on an upper arm, set against a green background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crystal perfume bottle on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A detailed perfume bottle with a large faceted crystal stopper, a dark silver neck and an ornate filigree collar set with purple stones. The body is shaded in red and coral tones, with smooth highlights and fine metallic detail. A green wash fills the background behind the bottle, and a red rose tattoo is partly visible at the top left.

Realism Upper arm Crystal Filigree Gem Rose

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Right, pull that chair in, because the band's on its break and I've only got the one bottle of stout in me. Nineteen thirty-eight, the Majestic Ballroom above the bus station in Cardiff, and a man called Ivor Pryce came up the stairs every Thursday with a wooden case under his arm. Inside the case, wrapped in grey flannel, was a scent bottle the size of a plum. Red glass, the colour of a robin's chest, hung all over with silver filigree, and a stopper cut from crystal the size of a boiled sweet.

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Nobody in the hall could afford it, and Ivor knew that. He'd unwrap it under the revolving lights and let the purple stones throw colour across the sprung floor, then say the same thing every week: the price is a dance, not a shilling. Whoever could cross the room with the bottle balanced on one palm, without a drop slopping over the rim, could take it home. Plenty tried. Mrs Dilys Ashe, who'd once been a bandleader's wife, got as far as the fourth bar before she sat down and cried.

Then a girl called Nell Corrigan, who worked the cloakroom and had never once been asked onto the floor, took the bottle off him with her cardigan sleeve pulled over her hand. She didn't dance at all. She walked, slow as the tide coming in, while the saxophone dragged out the last bars, and when the music stopped she set the bottle down without a single ripple in the red.

Ivor looked at her a long while. Then he laughed and said, 'That's not dancing.' 'No,' said Nell, 'it's waiting. You never learned the difference.' She took the bottle home and never once wore the scent. She kept the stopper on her windowsill, where it threw purple across the ceiling every morning, and nobody on Bute Street ever asked her to dance again.