Person kneeling on a sofa in a pink dress, with black and grey floral tattoos on the arms, thighs and calves, face hidden by a black mask.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral tattoos on arms and legs

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A person kneels on a light sofa in a pink dress, with the face covered by a black fabric mask printed with a white skull design. Tattoos cover both arms and the upper legs, showing roses and leaves in heavy black and grey shading with some red flower accents. The composition is close and slightly soft, cropped from the head to the knees, with the tattoos as the main focus.

Forearm Upper arm Thigh Calf Rose Flower Leaves Floral Ornament

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had been coming sideways through the market since six, and by nine the cobbles under my stall were the colour of wet slate. I kept the buckets under the awning and the roses in them, mostly red, the deep kind that go nearly black at the edges when the cold gets into them. Nobody buys dark roses in February. They want carnations and tulips shipped from somewhere warmer. Still, I would rather sell one dark rose to the person who wants it than a hundred pink ones to people who don't.

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Mr Okafor came at ten past nine, same as every Thursday since his wife's funeral, collar up and hat dripping. He never asked the price. He pointed, and I wrapped whatever he pointed at in brown paper. This week he stood a long time over the bucket at the back, the one with the thorned stems I'd cut from the old bush behind the glasshouse on Haddon Lane. My grandmother planted that bush. Nobody has pruned it properly since she died. He pointed at a bloom so dark it looked painted on. "That one," he said. "She always said they looked like they'd been inked."

I had been charging him full price for three months, and I had been buying the stems from the florist on Carver Street, dyed and forced, because I told myself the bush was finished. That morning I walked past Haddon Lane on the way in and found it had put out a dozen shoots in the wet, black-green and furious, buds already splitting along the edges.

I wrapped the rose and held it out. He reached for his coins, and I shook my head. He looked at me for a long moment, then tucked the stem into his buttonhole, where the rain ran off the petals like ink that wouldn't quite spread.