Fine line tattoo of a woman with an updo and teal and orange earring on a thigh, with a shaded cat's head in an oval frame below her.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woman portrait and cat on a thigh

Fine line · Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A thin black line drawing of a woman's face and shoulders with her hair swept up, with loose teal, orange and pink watercolour splashes around the hair and a dangling earring. Below her, a shaded black and grey cat's head sits inside an oval frame, with a teal wash behind it. The composition runs vertically along the outer thigh, with the figure above and the framed cat below.

Fine line Thigh Woman Portrait Cat Earring Oval frame Watercolour splash Updo

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the time the lamps were lit along Mill Lane, the rain had soaked through the sketchbook you carried under your coat, so you spread its pages on the kitchen table and started again. Outside, the trees of Hollin Wood stood close to the last cottage like people waiting to be let in. Your mother used to say the wood kept whatever it was given, and you never asked her what she meant.

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Mrs Abernethy came to the back door that Thursday with a grey tom under one arm, torn at the ear, who had been living in the hedge since spring. She wanted him painted on a miniature of oval ivory, the way her husband hung in the parlour. You set the cat on a folded blanket by the window and watched the light slide over his face. Teal wash for the damp hedge, a thread of ochre for the lamplight. He did not move once, and that was the first strange thing.

Then there was the woman. You had drawn her a dozen times without knowing why: hair swept up, a long earring like a falling leaf, her eyes turned towards the trees. When you looked up from the ivory, she was sitting in the chair by the stove, her hair dry while the rain ran down the glass behind her. She said nothing. She only tapped the edge of the frame once with a fingernail, and the cat blinked.

In the morning Mrs Abernethy's miniature was gone from the table, and in its place lay a pale oval of ivory with nothing on it but the ghost of a whisker. You carried the sketchbook to the edge of the trees and left it open on a stump. When you came back at dusk, the pages had been turned to a clean sheet, and someone had drawn you, hair swept up, looking back at the house.