Black and grey realism portrait tattoo of a woman in cat-eye glasses resting her hand on her cheek, on the forearm.

Realism portrait of a woman in cat-eye glasses

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A realistic portrait of a woman with light, swept-back hair, wearing cat-eye glasses and resting one hand against her cheek, with a dark top visible below her shoulders. The work uses smooth, soft shading for the skin and hair, with fine detail in the eyes, lips and glasses frames. The image is shown in black and grey ink on a forearm, with the tattoo filling most of the frame against a plain wall and wooden floor.

Realism Forearm Portrait Woman Hair Lip

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Nell,

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The radiator in room six has started knocking again, so I am writing this at the front desk with my coat on and the wind leaning against the glass like a drunk customer. You will not believe who came in on Tuesday, just as the sand began rising off the old highway. A woman in a dusty green Chevrolet sat at the counter with her chin resting on one palm and a pair of grey cat-eye frames pushed up on her forehead, asking whether we had a room with a view of nothing at all. I told her nothing was all we had. She laughed as if I had made a good joke.

She paid for nine nights in coins, stacked in little towers on the counter, and asked me to keep the television on the news and never the weather. Every evening she sat by the window with her hand against her cheek, watching the road where the lamp post used to stand before the storm bent it over. I did not ask questions. A desk clerk learns quickly that the guests who stay longest are the ones who say least about themselves.

On Friday morning room nine was empty. The bed was made tight as a drum, and on the pillow lay an envelope addressed to Eddie, the driver who brings our water. Inside was a note asking him to keep the lamp at the end of the drive burning until the road is clear again, and a photograph of a car parked under a sky so blue it looked painted. On the back she had written only: keep the window open for the ones who come in late.

I have done as she asked. The lamp is lit and the sand has buried the first two miles of the highway, but I leave the door unlocked and the kettle warm, because some nights I still hear coins being counted in the empty corridor. Write back soon and tell me whether the sea is as grey as they say.

Love, Marjorie