Black fine line script tattoo reading 1 Corinthians 13:4-8, crossed by a diagonal line, on the forearm.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8 script with cross

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A fine line tattoo of the reference 1 Corinthians 13:4-8 in cursive script, with the number 13 set to the left and 4:8 beneath the word Corinthians. A thin diagonal line crosses through the lettering, and the design is drawn in single-weight black linework with no shading. The photo is taken close up on a pale forearm against a soft, slightly blurred background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Scripture Bible verse Cross Script Number

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourself down on that bench, love, the one with the split slat, and mind the damp. The four-eight is late again, which is no surprise on a Tuesday in Kirkby Vale. Forty years Albert Pell kept the ticket office here, and above his kettle he pinned a card in his own careful copperplate: Love is patient. Love is kind. Every morning before he drew the shutters, he read it out to the empty platform, as if the pigeons needed reminding.

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He was not a soft man. When Mr Gale came banging on the glass one wet November, shouting that the fare was daylight robbery and the line was a disgrace, Albert let him shout until he ran dry. Then he took a pencil and wrote the sum on the back of a timetable, the way he always did with grievances, and he did not write it on any ledger. Keeping no record of wrongs, he called it, though Nora said he only kept it in his head where it could be forgotten at leisure. Nora ran the lost property shelf behind him, wrapping forgotten umbrellas in brown paper and tying each one with string, and the two of them had a whole marriage conducted in cards left on the counter.

The winter the bridge went under, the stranded passengers slept on the waiting room floor, and Albert gave away his overcoat, then his sandwiches, then the last of Nora's tea. Mr Gale found him at dawn, still in his shirtsleeves, dealing out cards for the men who could not sleep. He said nothing. He simply took the pencil from Albert's pocket and drew a small cross through the old fare on the timetable, as though striking a line through the debt.

That umbrella is still on the shelf, by the way. Green, with a bent spoke. Nobody has ever come for it, and Nora never sent it on. She says some things are lent, not owed, and you only learn the difference by waiting. Ah, there's the whistle. Mind your step on the crossing.