Gold and silver metallic temporary tattoos in mandala, lace and vine designs on a wrist, hand, ankles and feet, shown against a white background.

Metallic gold and silver temporary tattoos

Botanical · Hand · Colour · Photo

Metallic gold and silver foil temporary tattoos cover a wrist, hand, lower leg, ankles and feet. The designs include lace-like bracelet bands, a mandala on one ankle, a leafy vine down the top of the other foot and a short line of fine script above the ankle. The fine, smooth linework is set against pale skin on a plain white background, with a bright, even, studio-style light.

Botanical Hand Calf Ankle Other Mandala Lace Vine Leaves Crown Flower Script Bracelet Anklet Metallic

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody at the Hollin Park reunion knows you until you say Sasha Ferrand's name, and then the whole function room turns round as if someone has rung a bell. The buffet is sausage rolls and sponge squares under cling film, and the DJ, who was two years below you, keeps apologising for the volume. By the door a tray holds a sheet of metallic transfers someone bought at the market, gold and silver lace bands, mandalas and tiny vines, and a few women are pressing them on with the back of a teaspoon, laughing as if it is still the lido in July.

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You remember that July. You and Sasha spent your pocket money on a sheet exactly like this and sat on the wall outside the baker's, rubbing the foil down until it took. Hers was a gold mandala that spread across her ankle like a sundial. Yours was a vine climbing the top of your foot, and you put two leaves the wrong way round, which she said made it look as if it had grown there on purpose. Above her ankle she wrote one word in biro, a loopy little thing, and you were both certain it was the most romantic word in the world. You can't recall it now, only that it was short, and that you believed it.

She finds you by the window with a paper cup of squash. She says she works nights on a ward in Leeds and still keeps the rest of the sheet in a biscuit tin under her bed, the one with the castle on the lid. 'Most of it's gone,' she says. 'The bits left are just hanging on for something to do.' She shows you the silver band on her wrist, faded to a grey ghost, and before you can say anything she starts to peel it away. It comes off in one clean piece, curled like a bangle, and she presses it into your palm, still warm from the room.

Later, in the car park, the lace is already cracking at the edges. You hold it up under the sodium light until it throws its thin shadow across the tarmac.