Two small orange butterfly tattoos, one on the top of a finger and one on the side of another finger of a hand held against a dark background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Two small butterfly tattoos on fingers

Fine line · Hand · Colour · Photo

Two small butterflies with detailed, shaded wings sit on the fingers of a hand, one on the upper side of a finger and one on the adjacent finger. The linework is fine and the wings are filled with orange, amber and brown tones. The soft, warm-toned photograph is shot close up, with the hand framed against a dim background.

Fine line Hand Butterfly

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ada and I learned the quickstep on the sprung boards above the Lyceum in Bexhill, where the cloakroom girl charged threepence for a ticket and the bandleader, Mr Pell, counted us in with two fingers raised like a conductor's baton. Our mothers thought the hall a den of nonsense, so we went on Thursdays in our good shoes and changed into our slippers in the ladies' lavatory, and nobody at home ever asked why our hair smelt of Brylcreem and cigarette smoke.

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The rule was that you never danced twice with the same man in one evening, so Ada kept a stub of pencil in her glove and marked every partner on the back of her ticket. By November the card was a grey map of initials. Mine had only three. She said that was because I stood too still near the pillars, and I said it was because I had watched her go round the floor like a ship in a harbour and had no wish to be shipwrecked.

In the back room, before Christmas, she took her aunt's darning needle and a saucer of walnut ink and pricked a small butterfly onto the top of my forefinger, then did hers on the finger beside it so that they faced one another when we held hands. It hurt less than I expected and bled very little. She was gone by February, on the back of a motorbike to Leeds with a man who sold gramophones, and she sent one postcard saying the ballroom there had a sprung floor too but no Mr Pell.

That Thursday I went alone and Mr Pell played a slow waltz for nobody in particular. I stood near the pillar where Ada used to lean and lifted my two inked fingers, the ink gone soft and brown at the edges, and let them flutter in time with the music while the couples turned past me like weather.