Black and grey dotwork portrait tattoo of a woman with a flower crown, drop earrings, suit jacket and tie, on the outer thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Portrait of a woman in a flower crown on thigh

Dotwork · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A stippled black linework portrait of a woman with dark hair pinned up under a crown of roses and small flowers. She wears drop earrings, a collared shirt, a tie and a pinstriped suit jacket, and the figure is framed in a bust-length outline. Shading is built from dense dots and fine lines, with no colour ink, and the tattoo fills most of the frame on a thigh.

Dotwork Thigh Woman Portrait Flower Flower crown Earring Suit Tie Jacket

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sale was set for the second Tuesday in January, which meant the ewes had to be counted before the auctioneer arrived, and the roses had to be cut from the glasshouse before the frost got into them. Mam always said you could read a farm's mood from the state of its glass. Ours was cracked along the north side, and nobody had mended it since the spring my brother left.

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I wore Dad's suit. Pinstripe, the wool gone soft at the elbows, the waistcoat buttoned wrong because he had always buttoned it wrong and I had never corrected him. Stan from the next parish said the buyers would want to see someone who looked like they belonged to the land, and I thought that if I was going to be a farmer in a suit, I might as well be one who meant it. I pinned the roses above my ear the way Mam used to, though they were already drooping in the cold of the car.

The auctioneer, a thin man called Pritchard with a cough like a rusted gate, walked the lower field with his clipboard. He asked what I would do with the land if I kept it, and I told him the truth, which was that I would count it. I had spent three winters doing the same thing with a biro on the backs of feed receipts, one small mark for every ewe and every bale, until the margins were grey with them.

When the figures were agreed, I walked back up the hill alone. Frost had found the cracks in the glasshouse, and every broken pane was sprinkled with white points, as if someone had stippled the glass one dot at a time. I stood in my father's suit and counted them until I lost my place, and for the first time since the spring I did not need to count anything to know what was mine.