Pink and red butterfly tattoo with black outlines on the outer upper arm of a person wearing a white top.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pink butterfly on upper arm

Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A small butterfly with pink and red wings edged in black sits on the outer upper arm. The wings show dark linework, pink shading and a gold-brown body with thin black antennae. The arm fills most of the frame against a white top and a blurred background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The night the cellar flooded at the Starlight Rooms, Mavis Dunn came up the back stairs with her shoes in one hand and a pink silk scarf knotted round her wrist. I was working the cloakroom hatch, counting coats that smelled of rain, and she pushed a ticket at me without looking up. "Hold this for Len," she said. "If he asks, I've gone home."

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Len Barrow had led the dance band since before the war, and everyone knew he was sweet on her. He owned a trumpet case bigger than his own chest and had a habit of playing the last bar of every number twice, as if he wanted it kept. Earlier that evening he'd stopped a foxtrot halfway through to point at her lapel, where a small brooch caught the light. He'd bought it from a market stall in Brighton: a copper butterfly with wings enamelled pink and red, black edges drawn fine as pencil, a gold-brown body and antennae like two hairs from a violin bow.

She unpinned it that night and pressed it into my palm. "He only ever talks about leaving," she said, "and I'm tired of being the thing he takes with him." When Len came up the stairs, wet to the knee and hopeful, he asked for her. I said she'd gone home, and he nodded as though he'd expected nothing else.

The hall was pulled down in the spring. I still have the brooch in my tin of buttons, its wings as bright as they were under those chandeliers, and every so often I take it out and think of Len playing that last bar twice for nobody at all.

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