Fine line tattoo of a small boxy robot with a red heart on the torso, on the side of the body above the waistband.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small robot with red heart on the side

Fine line · Ribs · Mixed · Photo

A small boxy robot with a square head, an antenna, a pair of simple eyes and a smile is drawn in black outline. Its body holds a tiny solid red heart, and it has short rectangular legs. The linework is clean and even, with the rest of the image in natural skin tones and a dark waistband at the bottom edge.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Right, shift up, and keep the noise down for the stairwell, because the lift's been out since Easter and Mrs Alder on nine bangs the ceiling with her broom. You all know Maisie on the fourteenth floor. Her boy Dev was a quiet lad with a soldering iron he'd nicked from the woodwork room. One winter he made a robot out of a biscuit tin, two bottle tops for eyes, a bent coat hanger for an aerial, and a red button sewn into its chest where a heart ought to be.

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He stood it on the windowsill facing the car park, and it grinned at the bins every night. The painter the council sent round never bothered to scrape the smile off the sill, so it stayed. Then the letters came about the block coming down, and the removal men packed the flat in a single Saturday. Somebody loaded the pot plants into the van and forgot the robot. Dev stood in the empty kitchen and cried, which he'll deny to this day, and he said the robot had gone off to find a better window.

Years went by. Dev grew up, bought a van of his own and fixed heating systems across the city. Last month he knocked on Maisie's new door in Walsall with a parcel wrapped in the Sunday paper. Inside was that tin robot, dented, the coat hanger straightened, and the red button still stitched on. He'd found it in a skip outside the old block the week they knocked it down. Maisie said he'd got it all wrong, it was never a broken robot, it just had a heart and nowhere to put it.

So it sits on the windowsill now, facing the car park, grinning at the bins as if nothing ever happened. Put the kettle on, somebody, and mind the stairs. It's a long way down from fourteen.

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