Forearm tattoo of two black silhouetted figures in suits under an umbrella, beneath a colourful watercolour-style cloud with rain drips and a small bird.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Umbrella and watercolour rain on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

Two solid black silhouettes of figures in suits stand together beneath a black umbrella at the base of the design. Above them, a cloud of loose blue, pink, green and red washes releases long, thin streaks of blue rain that run down the forearm, with a small blue bird at the upper left. The photo is taken straight on, with the forearm filling most of the frame against a dark sleeve.

Forearm Umbrella Rain Cloud Silhouette Bird Raindrop

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Every morning from October to April, Tom Ackroyd held the umbrella over Sid Lomas, and every morning Sid pretended not to notice that Tom's left shoulder was soaked through before they reached the revolving doors of Pennine and Crowe Assurance. Nobody at the office could say when the weather had started following them. Tom blamed the forecast. Sid blamed the lift, which was slow, and the lobby, which was draughty, and the city, which had never once in forty years dried out properly.

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On the fourth floor the typists swore that the rain came through the ceiling tiles in long blue threads, and the facilities man put a bucket under the strip light and wrote a complaint form that nobody filed. Sid kept a pencil tin on his desk with a faded wren on the lid. Tom asked him once where he'd got it. Sid said a woman in Scarborough had given it to him in 1979, and then, after a long pause, that she had also given him the umbrella, which had not been a good present, because it had never once kept the two of them dry at the same time.

Sid retired in June, on a day that turned out bright and hot. He left the tin on Tom's desk and the umbrella propped beside the coat stand. Tom carried it out to the bus stop anyway, past a car park where the tarmac was already dry, and found himself opening it out of habit. When he closed it again, a little sheepish, a small blue bird landed on the spoke nearest his hand and sat there, fluffed and unbothered, as if it had been waiting for the rain to finish.

The bus was late. Tom stood under the umbrella anyway, and the bird, which had no reason to stay, did not leave until the bus came.