A man in a black t-shirt and joggers walks along a street, showing a black and grey realism sleeve tattoo with a clock, roses and compass on his arm.

Grey sleeve with clock and roses

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A full-length arm sleeve of black and grey tattoo work shows a pocket watch or clock face, roses and other floral forms, and what appears to be a compass. The shading is soft and layered, with varied grey tones giving depth to the petals and metalwork. The man is shown from the waist down and the arm is visible from upper arm to wrist against a plain black outfit and a blurred street backdrop.

Realism Upper arm Forearm Sleeve Clock Rose Flower Compass

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The oven door bangs shut before the kettle has finished its rumble, and the clock above the proving racks says ten to four. You know it is nearer ten past, because the clock has run eleven minutes slow since spring and nobody has managed to fix it without a ladder and a swear word. You tip the first tray of bloomers onto the steel bench and listen to them crackle as they cool. Outside, the street is the colour of wet slate, and the only traffic is a milk float coughing past the chemist.

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Dev comes in at four with his hood up and a cardboard box under one arm. He has been trying to sell his grandfather's brass compasses to the antiques man on Carver Road, and he has sold exactly one, for less than the petrol. He wants a bun for the drive north. You wrap a cinnamon roll in greaseproof paper and hand it over still warm enough to fog the bag. He says the little needle has stuck pointing at the back wall since the shop flooded. You tell him a compass stuck on one direction is just a compass that knows where it wants to go.

When he has gone, you pick up the cloth to wipe the bench and find yourself counting. Flour on the rim of the sink, a row of red piped roses on the Hadleys' anniversary cake board, the second hand on the wall clock jerking forward in its small, stubborn way. It is ten past four by the world outside and ten to by the wall, and for once you do not reach for the stepladder.

By the time frost has drawn feathery roses in the corners of the window, the rolls are out and the first lamp on the high street has flickered on. You let the clock go on being wrong. The bread will be sold at the right time whatever the wall says, and somebody out there will be glad of the warmth.