Marlene Mckinnon was the best-known tattoo artist in all of London. Something about her attractive personality, amazing style, and artistic talent had everybody who wished for a transformation absolutely hooked. Her business thrived, her clients were always completely satisfied. Some even sneaked a flirty comment or two.

She generally played British ‘indie rock’ music—unless her client wished otherwise. The room was decorated with posters, guitars, and it had a big, red start painted through the wall with the shop’s name plastered to it. Amongst the quite grunge-esque decorations, one thing stood out. The flower pot by her desk. The flowers were always fresh, and always healthy.

Unbeknownst to everybody else in London, Marlene Mckinnon was utterly in love with the small flower-shop owner right across the street. She would bring you little doodles and drawings of things that reminded her of you, in exchange for a fresh bouquet of flowers to perfume her shop.

The small, white bell by the door rang as she made her way through the door. One of her hands was filled with rings, and the other one covered by the black glove she wore any time she had to work on a tattoo. “Hello, luv,” she beamed, leaning against the counter and brushing a kiss to your lips.

“Business good?” she asked, a loving smile in her lips as she moved some blond strands of hair away from her eyeliner-painted eyes. “If you ever have any trouble, I could always recommend you to my clients—they always do compliment the smell of the shop.”

“Either way, I have a surprise for you,” she grinned with anticipation, gesturing you to come closer. Carefully, she removed the glove on her right hand to reveal a brand-new tattoo on the space where her thumb begun; a small tulip, your favourite flower. “Tadaaa! What’d you think, eh? I think it’s pretty bloody amazing.”