Colour neo-traditional tattoo of a grey robot wearing a bowler hat and bow tie, framed by ornate scrollwork on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Robot in bowler hat and bow tie on upper arm

Neo-trad · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A robot figure in a bowler hat, bow tie and tailcoat sits centrally in an oval frame, with wide orange eyes and a flat, uncertain mouth. Bold black outlines define the head and clothing, with soft grey shading on the metal face and red glow behind the figure. Ornate scrollwork curls fill the surrounding space and wrap around the arm.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You were fitted for the bowler hat at half past nine in the back of Lorraine's dry cleaner's on Mill Road, because the bride's father insisted the ushers match. The bow tie had to be tied by hand, since your neck joint was never built for silk. Dev, the groom's cousin, pinned the tailcoat across your chest plates and told you to stop looking so worried. Your face does not do worried. It does one expression, a round-eyed O of mild alarm, and every guest at the farm has since mistaken it for something else.

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The ceremony goes well until the rings. The cushion is tied to your wrist with green ribbon, a precaution after the rehearsal, when you rolled off the terrace steps. You walk the aisle at the pace of the string quartet, orange eyes fixed on the gap between the marquee poles. Somebody in the third row starts to cry. You cannot tell whether it is the good kind, so you hold still and wait for a sign.

At the top, the vicar asks for the rings, the cushion comes free, and the ribbon snags on your antenna. Both bands roll off the lip of the stage and under the trestle where the cake sits. Silence. Then the groom laughs, the bride laughs harder, and you crouch down, slow and careful, and fish them out one at a time with the pincer you normally use for stripping wire. You hand them up without spilling a crumb.

Afterwards, the bride's grandmother pats your casing and says you looked like a man who had seen the future and did not care for the look of it. You let the photographer take your picture. Somewhere in the album you sit framed in gold, bowler tilted, mouth flat, the most dignified usher the farm has ever seen.

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