Black and grey floral tattoos on the upper arms and upper back of a woman with a blonde bob, shown from behind in a black open-back dress.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Floral tattoos on arms and upper back

Botanical · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman with a blonde bob stands with her back to the camera and both arms raised, wearing a black open-back dress with ruffled straps. Several black floral tattoos are visible, including blooms on the outer upper arms and a small cluster on the upper back. The tattoos are in black and grey against a plain white background, with soft, even lighting.

Botanical Upper arm Back Flower Floral Rose

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, the pair of you, and mind the draught from the tunnel mouth. You want the proper version, not the one they tell on the Wednesday excursion. Forty years ago the flower stall at Carrow Junction belonged to a widow called Nell Pardoe, and she kept her cuttings in jam jars along the sill of the waiting room, because the stationmaster said the damp would ruin his timetables if she set them on the platform.

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Every morning before the milk train she wiped the soot from the glass and counted her roses like coins. Black ink roses, she called them, though they were only the ones that had come up dark-leaved from her mother's yard in Thorne. Nobody bought them. Commuters bought carnations for their wives and went home. Then one November a young engineer came through with a case of drawings under his arm and stopped to stare at the jars for the length of a whistle.

He never said why he came back. He bought the last bloom every Friday and left it on the bench by the signal box, and Nell never once asked his name. The station clock ran four minutes slow the whole winter, and she said that was why the engineer was always late and always on time at once.

When the stall closed for good, the porter found a pencil sketch tucked under the bottom jar: the same rose, drawn small, with a railway line curling round its stem like a ribbon. Nell had signed it. It was dated the Friday of the first frost, and beside the date she had written, in careful copperplate, that it had been waiting for him all along.