Realistic portrait of a man in tinted glasses
Realism · Calf · Colour · Photo
A large portrait of a man with slicked-back hair, a goatee and yellow-tinted aviator glasses fills the calf, shown in a three-quarter view. The shading is smooth and detailed, with soft transitions in the skin tones, a dark jacket collar and a dark background. A partial script tattoo is visible on the other side of the leg, and the photograph shows a sneaker at the lower edge.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
"Locker fourteen again," I said, before he had the holdall fully on the counter. He nodded the way he always did, as though I had saved him a sentence he couldn't be bothered to spend. Yellow lenses, slicked-back hair going grey at the temples, a goatee trimmed so close it looked drawn on. Every Thursday for eleven months he came in off the 4.12 from Preston, paid his two pounds in coins he counted into little piles, and walked away without looking back at the rafters where the trains shook the dust down.
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Nobody on the staff knew his name. Gwen on the newsstand reckoned he was a bailiff, and Terry from the buffet swore he was a retired conjuror because of the way he palmed his change. I didn't much care. What I cared about was that the holdall was always heavier going out than coming in, and that he never once opened the locker in front of me. He just lifted the handle and let it swing, like a man testing whether something had settled.
The Thursday he didn't come, I opened fourteen myself at closing. Inside was no holdall, only a cardboard box of timetables from the year I left school, a hair-oil tin with the label worn off, and a single tinted lens wrapped in a bus ticket. On the back of the ticket, in pencil, someone had written: Look at the hills through this, love. Ta.
I held it up to the window while the last southbound pulled out. The platform turned the colour of weak tea, then of marmalade, and the rails ran off gold towards the dark. For once I couldn't tell whether the train was leaving or coming back.
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