Close-up of a lettering tattoo reading 13.elieve on the forearm, with the 13 in pink and outlined and the rest in dark navy.

13.elieve lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A close photograph of the words "13.elieve" tattooed on skin, with the "13" in pink with dark outlines and the remaining letters in solid dark navy or black. The script lettering runs diagonally across the frame, with a stylised 1 in place of the l. The warm, slightly soft focus and vignetted edges suggest a casual phone photo against a plain skin background.

Lettering Forearm Believe Word Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The flour is still hanging in the cold air when you unlock the back door, and Mr Pring is already swearing at the proving drawer. Four in the morning in February, and the ovens have been running since midnight. He hands you the scale without looking up. Twelve to the dozen, he says, and the thirteenth goes in for nothing. A baker who gives thirteen never runs short, he says, and you have heard it so often that you have stopped asking whether he believes it himself.

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The first customer is Mrs Adeyemi from the flats by the canal, who comes every morning with her purse held shut by an elastic band. She pays for twelve rolls and watches you slide the thirteenth into the paper bag. 'He's soft,' she says, meaning Pring, and you tell her he is the softest man in the county, which is a lie, and she laughs anyway. You have worked here since October and still haven't decided whether the extra roll is generosity or a bet.

By seven the shop smells of burnt sugar and wet wool. Pring sits on an upturned crate with the slate board across his knees, chalking the specials in capitals. Halfway through he stops, rubs a word out with his thumb and writes it again with a dot after the thirteen and a 1 where the l should be. You ask what happened to the first attempt. He says the first attempt was a Tuesday, and he would rather not discuss Tuesdays before breakfast.

You leave the slate by the door. When the sun finally comes up over the bins, the light falls across the chalk and the word still reads the way he wrote it, stubborn and a little crooked, the way the best things in the shop are.