Realism tattoo of a woman's face behind a black lace masquerade mask with white flowers, placed on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Masquerade mask portrait on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A realistic portrait of a woman with dark eyes and red lips, partly covered by an ornate black lace mask decorated with white flowers and small pearl-like dots. The face and mask are shaded in black and grey with fine detail, while the lips and skin tones add red and flesh colour. The portrait fills the frame against a plain dark background, with the mask at the top and the face and hair curling down below.

Realism Forearm Woman Lace Flower Portrait Eye Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The coach from Brussels was four hours late, and the trunk that came off it at ten past nine was the kind nobody wants to open at that hour. I had it on the steel table under the strip light before Pritchard had finished his tea, gloves on, a form half filled in beside me. Theatre stuff, the driver had said. Costumes for a touring company. Everything in this job is theatre stuff if you ask the man carrying it.

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Under the tissue paper lay a mask of black lace, stiff with age and heavier than it looked. White flowers had been stitched across the brow in clusters, and small pearls were scattered among them like frost on a windowpane. I held it up to the light. The eye openings were cut with a precision I didn't expect from a prop, the edges bound in silk gone the colour of weak tea. Pritchard leaned in and said it was worth more than the trunk, which was the only thing he said all night that I agreed with.

Sewn inside the crown was a card no bigger than a bus ticket. Maison Dorian, Rue des Chandeliers, Lyon, a date in 1962, and beneath it in pencil: collect Thursday. Nobody had. When I asked, Mr Quill said the trunk had been his mother's and he had never looked inside it, and I believed him the way you believe a man who has carried something a long way without asking what it weighs.

I stamped the form theatrical property, no duty, and copied the card's details into the margin where nobody would read them. Then I wrapped the mask back in its tissue and set it in the trunk face up, so the lace looked out at the empty shed. Thursday, I thought. Somebody is always meant to collect.