Pink hibiscus flower with black scrollwork and pink swirls covering the upper back and shoulder, in a botanical fine-line style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pink hibiscus and swirls on a shoulder

Botanical · Shoulder · Mixed · Photo

A large pink hibiscus flower with shaded petals and stamen sits on the upper back and shoulder, surrounded by fine black scrollwork, dots and loose tendrils. Pink swirls and small pink dots extend across the shoulder blade, and the black linework is crisp with some soft grey shading beneath the flower. The composition is asymmetrical, with the flower as the focal point and the swirls trailing outward toward the arm.

Botanical Fine line Shoulder Hibiscus Flower Swirl Scrollwork Dot Tendril

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hibiscus came up in the lift with Mrs Pardoe on the Tuesday, wedged between her shopping bags and a hoover she'd been meaning to return to the caretaker since spring. It was the size of a dinner plate, pink as a boiled sweet, and she held it out to me on the ninth-floor landing as though she were handing over a baby.

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Nobody on Corran House grew anything. The balconies were for bikes and bin bags, and the wind off the car park took whatever you set out. But she had a windowsill full of cuttings and a rule that if a plant lived past the first frost, it could stay. The hibiscus was mine, she said, because I was the only one who came out to smoke and actually looked at things.

I kept it by the railing where the sun came in sideways after four. Within a month it had thrown out black wiry stems that curled through the balcony bars as if drawing a map of the estate, and fresh blooms opened every morning and dropped by dusk. I swept the petals into a dustpan and tipped them over the edge, and each time I thought of her saying the thing would outlive us both if I let it.

When the letter came about the drainpipes, her flat was empty by Friday. The pot was still on her sill with one bloom open in the cold. I lifted it in both hands, its tendrils catching on my sleeve as if they didn't want to leave, and carried it down the eleven flights to my own door, because some things you don't leave for the bin men.