Black and grey tattoo of an astronaut in a spacesuit and helmet, shaded and outlined, covering the upper arm of a man in a teal vest.

Astronaut on upper arm

Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey tattoo of an astronaut in a full spacesuit and helmet, with the figure drifting diagonally from the shoulder down the upper arm. The linework is bold and dark, with soft grey shading on the helmet, suit folds, backpack and boots. The composition fills the upper arm, and the astronaut's gloved hand reaches toward the elbow.

Upper arm Astronaut Helmet Space Glove Boot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The gym smells of floor polish and the same orange squash as 1994, and Carol from the year above is already pointing at you across the room, her name badge lettered in capitals she has clearly redone twice. You hold your pint like a shield. Someone has propped the old class photo on an easel by the buffet, the one where Mr Pryce made everybody stand on the bench so the back row could be seen, and you are the only one not looking at the camera. You were counting the water stains on the ceiling tiles, because Dean Kettering had said that if you stared at a stain long enough it turned into a planet.

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Dean is here. He has a lanyard, a printed timetable for the evening, and the easy calm of a man who finally got on with the council. "Still daft about the moon?" he asks, and you mumble something about a library book and a telescope from a car boot sale that never found anything brighter than Venus. He reminds you of the summer you tied a skipping rope to the pavilion gate and let a rounders ball drift out over the field on the wind, and you both laugh until your ribs hurt, the way you only laugh about things you did at nine when you still believed in sensible nonsense.

Later, by the fire doors, Carol asks what you do now. You tell her: sensor calibration, nothing glamorous. She says she thought you'd be famous. You say the only famous thing you ever did was ask Mr Pryce whether an astronaut could sneeze inside a helmet, and nobody has ever answered properly. Outside, the car park lights come on one by one, slow as stars deciding.

Dean finds you before the last song. He holds out his hand, not for a shake, but for the old gesture from the rounders field, when you pretended a tether needed holding. You take it, and neither of you lets go.