Colour tattoo of three cupcakes with blue wrappers, pink swirls and sprinkles, running down the side of the ribs.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Three cupcakes with swirls on the ribs

Ribs · Colour · Photo

Three cupcakes with blue wrappers descend diagonally down the side of the torso, each topped with frosting in pink, orange or yellow. The first cupcake has a cherry on top, and brown sprinkles and pink wisps of swirling smoke or steam surround the designs. The outlines are clean, with soft shading and light highlights on the frosting and wrappers.

Ribs Cupcake Cherry Sprinkles Frosting Swirl

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third week of August, and the cupcakes on the kitchen sill have started to sweat. You count them the way Mrs Hallam taught you to count change, one, two, three, their blue paper cases bright as the bathing huts along the front, pink, peach and lemon frosting slowly giving up in the heat. The cherry on the first one has slid a little to the left. Someone has been at the sprinkles again. There is a brown trail across the lino that leads to the back stairs and stops at your door.

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Seaview House sits on Crabbe Terrace with eleven rooms, a tea urn that hasn't been switched off since the Jubilee, and a landlady who bakes for every birthday and every departure and is not sentimental about either. "A cake is a receipt," she says, "for having been here." You have been here since March, top floor, with the window that rattles whenever the wind comes round off the Channel, and a sketchbook of swirling pinks you have never shown anyone.

On your last morning the sea fog rolls in thick enough to swallow the pier. The foghorn at the harbour mouth starts its slow complaint. Your bag is already by the door when Mrs Hallam appears on the landing with a biscuit tin tied in string. Inside, wrapped in greaseproof, are three cupcakes, and a card in her spiky capitals: EAT THE CHERRY FIRST. You go down the front steps into the grey, the tin warm against your hip, and somewhere behind you the urn sighs out a plume of steam that the fog takes and carries off, pink at the edges, the way the lightest things always go.