Small monarch butterfly on the wrist
Other · Colour · Photo
A hand is raised against a plain pale wall, with the fingers curled into a loose fist and the nails painted white. A small monarch butterfly sits on the wrist, with orange wings outlined in black, black veins and white dots along the edges, and two thin black antennae. The ink is crisp and solid, and the butterfly is shown in sharp focus against the skin tone.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The band at the Marine Ballroom is murdering a foxtrot, and Eddie Marsh has trodden on your left foot twice before you reach the far corner by the potted palms. You don't mind. Beyond the tall windows the October dusk has turned orange, and you have been watching it since the first set: a drift of monarchs coming in off the marsh and settling on the promenade railings, as if someone had spooned marmalade over the iron.
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Eddie says his nan used to call them the sea's own butterflies, because they flew all the way down to Mexico and never once got lost. You tell him that's rubbish. It takes four generations to make the trip, and none of the ones who set off ever see the place they're headed. He laughs and says that's exactly what his nan would have said back, and then he asks if you'll come out onto the terrace with him at the interval, where it's quieter.
The terrace is stacked with folded chairs and smells of salt and frying onions from the kiosk below. A monarch lands on the rail beside your hand, opening and closing its wings slowly, the black veins dark as stained glass. You hold very still. Eddie returns with two lemonades and stops in the doorway, and you realise you don't need to say anything to make him stay.
When the band starts up again you take his hand for the quickstep, and for the first time all evening you're the one who leads. Out past the car park the butterfly lifts, catches the wind off the Channel, and heads south-west without looking back.
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