Two black and grey shaded roses tattooed on the upper thigh, with grey lace underwear and a bed in the background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Two black and grey roses on the hip

Realism · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

Two roses sit side by side on the outer hip and upper thigh of a person wearing grey lace underwear. The petals are rendered in smooth grey shading with darker outlines and fine stems extending between the flowers. The image is a warm, softly lit close-up on a bed with the ink in black and grey only.

Realism Botanical Thigh Rose Flower Stem

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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

Dear Ruth, Nothing on Ward Six has changed since you left, except that the vending machine on the landing now only takes coins from the left slot, and Mr Okafor has started calling me Duchess. I'm writing this at the desk at three because the corridor lights have dropped to their night setting and the drip pumps have finally stopped their chorus for once.

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Edith Marr came in on Tuesday with a photograph in her handbag of two roses growing from the same bed in her back garden, one bloom leaning into the other as if sharing a secret. Her husband planted them the year they married and spent forty summers pruning them with a pair of old secateurs he would never let anyone else touch. She asked me to bring her a jam jar of water and set the photo against it so the roses could see their own portrait. I told her the roses didn't need to see anything. She laughed and said that was exactly what Walter used to say.

She went home this morning, thorns and all, though I suspect the thorns were the only part of him she'd been waiting to argue with. Before she left she pressed a dry petal into my palm, grey at the edges from the lamp, and said to keep it somewhere the buses couldn't rattle it loose.

I've tucked it inside my locker door, where it sits beside your postcard of the chapel. Write soon, and tell me the 47 still stops outside the bakery. Love, Bex