Realistic black and grey portrait of a woman with curled hair blowing a pink bubble gum bubble, with pink watercolour splashes, on a forearm.

Woman blowing pink bubble gum on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A realistic portrait of a woman with voluminous curled hair, shown in soft greys and shading, blowing a glossy pink bubble gum bubble. Loose pink and black watercolour-style splashes frame the head and fade into the lower part of the forearm. Partial cursive script sits below the portrait, and the image is shot straight on with even lighting.

Realism Forearm Woman Portrait Bubble Curly hair Watercolour splash

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The telephone has been dead since Tuesday, and the snow has drifted so high against the back door of the Crow and Lantern that the kitchen window is just a grey square with lamplight behind it. You sit on the bottom stair with your knees hugged up, picking the last strip of pink gum out of a traveller's coat pocket. He never came back down for it. Nobody has come down for anything since the snow started.

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Mrs Haddow counts the spoons again, out loud, the way she does when she is frightened and will not say so. Mr Pell, the surveyor from the railway, keeps winding the wireless and getting only hiss and a dance band that sounds like it is playing underwater. You unwrap the gum, fold it in, and work it until it softens and tastes of nothing but sugar. Then you blow. The bubble climbs out of your mouth, round and pink and trembling, and the whole room turns to look at it, as if it were the first thing to move since Tuesday.

It grows to the size of a plum. Mr Pell says you look like a picture from one of the magazines his sister posts him, all curls and cheek, and you tell him to mind his manners. The bubble bursts with a soft slap across your chin. You do not wipe it off. Mrs Haddow laughs for the first time in three days, and the spoons sit forgotten on the dresser.

By morning the plough has cut a tunnel to the road. You scrape the window clear and find a faint pink smear on the glass where you pressed your face to watch the snow come down, and you leave it there, because the telephone rings at last and nobody is on the other end.