Fine black line tattoo of three roses arranged in a triangle on the inner upper arm, in a botanical style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Three roses in a triangle on an arm

Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows three roses in open bloom, arranged in a triangular cluster with the largest at the centre and smaller blooms at the top and left. It is drawn in thin, even black outlines with no shading, and the leaves and petals are suggested by simple curved lines. The photograph is black and white and centres the tattoo on a plain, softly lit arm against a pale background.

Fine line Botanical Upper arm Rose Flower

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sign above the Palais doors had lost its R again, so for the third Saturday running Dorothy Hale stood on a kitchen chair with a tin of black paint and a brush she had borrowed from her father's shed, trying to make the word read BALLROOM without the gap. Below her the band was tuning up in a hurry, a clarinet squealing like a gate that wanted oil.

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Mr Okafor, who ran the floor and paid in cash on Fridays, had asked for something to brighten the lintel, and she had offered roses because roses were the one thing she could draw without thinking. She sketched three on the back of a ration book first. The biggest sat in the middle with its petals folded over each other like cupped hands, and the two smaller blooms leaned in from the top and the left, close enough that their outlines nearly met. She had to lift the brush away each time so the lines stayed thin and even, and her wrist ached before the second flower was finished.

Len, her brother, had come down from the docks to watch and said roses were for people who had nothing better to look at. She told him to hold the chair steady instead. When she climbed down, he was looking up at the work and not saying anything, which from Len was a compliment.

By the time the lamps came on, the couples had begun to drift in under the sign, and she stood by the cloakroom with paint on her cuff and counted them through the door. Mr Okafor paid her two shillings and told her the roses would still be there when the place was pulled down, which was not the kind of thing he usually said. She went home past the bombsite and thought about how the outlines would fade in the damp, and how the petals would be the last part to go.