Small black and grey tattoo of a loose curled motif on the side of the torso, with a pink crochet bikini and warm sunlight.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small grey curled tattoo on the side ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A woman in a pink crochet bikini stands near the sea in warm, low sunlight, with her face cropped out of frame. A small black and grey tattoo sits on the side of her torso above the waistband, with simple linework forming a loose curled shape. The image is dominated by warm pink and orange tones, with the water and rocks softly blurred behind her.

Fine line Ribs Swirl Bikini Beach Sunset

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift stalls between the fourth and fifth floors again, and through the shaft you can hear the sea, which cannot be right on the ninth floor of Marlow House, three streets back from the shingle. You wedge your toolbag against the door and tell yourself it is the old counterweight groaning, the way it always does when the tide is high and the damp gets into the cables. Mrs Pryce on eleven has been ringing the desk every evening for a fortnight, saying the building is breathing through its pipes, and you have been the one sent up with a torch to tell her it is nothing.

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The plant room door is painted over so many times the handle has lost its shape. Inside, the pressure gauge on the old hydraulic ram has a needle that sits, curled against its stop like a fern in winter, and the glass is fogged with a fine salt bloom. Someone has pinned a postcard of a harbour wall to the frame, the corner soft with handling. On the back, in pencil, a single line: keep it coiled and it keeps you. You don't know who wrote it, or whether it was meant for a machine or a child.

You tap the glass twice, the way your father used to tap the barometer in the hall, and the needle lifts. Far below, the cables sigh and the car drops a clean inch and then holds. When the doors open at seven, the corridor smells of wet rope and sun cream, and somewhere a radio is playing a tune about the shore. You do not press for the ground floor. You press for the roof, and ride up through the warm, slow dark with your palm flat against the wall.