Realistic coloured portrait tattoo of a woman with a bruised eye, hoop earring and cross necklace on a calf.

Realistic portrait of a woman with a black eye

Realism · Calf · Mixed · Photo

A realistic portrait of a woman with dark hair swept up at the crown and falling loosely around her face, shown with a purple and yellow bruise around one eye and coloured eyeshadow on the other. She wears a hoop earring and a chain necklace with a cross pendant, and the soft shading gives the skin and hair depth. The portrait fills the length of a calf, with the face centred and the hair and necklace extending toward the edges.

Realism Calf Portrait Woman Hair Necklace Cross Chain

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Starlite's cloakroom had a brass bell nobody rang, and on Saturdays I was the one minding it. Vera came in at half nine with her coat hanging open and one hoop earring in her palm. The other, she said, was somewhere under the bench at the Tilley's table. She had face powder on one side that didn't match the other, and I didn't ask. Nobody asked at the Starlite. You learned to hand over a ticket and look at the ceiling.

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She sat on the stool by my hatch and fixed the earring using the little mirror from her bag. Her eyeshadow was the lilac she'd bought for Eileen's wedding, blended up past the brow, and the bruise underneath had gone yellow at the edges like a bad pear. 'Tommy Ross is on at ten,' she said. 'He plays the slow ones.' I told her the slow ones were the only ones worth dancing to. She laughed, then pressed a finger to her cheek, and I could tell it hurt.

Upstairs the floor filled. Through the glass I watched her dance with a sailor, then with her sister, then alone under the revolving light, her chain catching the blue and the small silver cross swinging at her collarbone like a second pendulum. Nobody cut in. Nobody needed to. When the song ended she came down for her coat and left a ticket on the hatch.

'Keep it for me, love,' she said. 'I'll be back for the other earring Saturday.' I tucked the ticket into my apron pocket with the rest. Forty-one that month. Every one came back for its coat except the ones that didn't, which I kept in a shoebox under the counter. Hers went on top.