Black guitar silhouette on an ankle
Blackwork · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo
A solid black electric guitar silhouette sits on the ankle, with a short line of lettering running up the neck. The fill is flat black ink with crisp edges and no shading, and the lettering is small and slightly curved to follow the neck. The skin is light and the background is softly blurred, with a dark shoe at the bottom of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Nobody in Ramsgate pawns a guitar on a Tuesday unless the rent has already gone out the door. Eddie Marsh put his Strat on my counter at ten past four, still in its gig bag, and asked me not to look too hard at the neck. I looked. Someone had painted the body flat black, the pickguard gone, and down the fretboard in a thin silver hand ran the words he'd never have said out loud: Play It Loud Till Morning. I wrote the ticket at twenty-five pounds, six months to redeem, and he signed without reading the small print, which is how most men sign.
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He came back twice in the first month to ask whether anyone had been in asking for it. Nobody had. The band had broken up at the Lantern Club over a set list, he told me, and the drummer had gone off to Margate with the van and the good cymbals. I hung the guitar on the back wall between a dented trombone and a wedding veil, where the light from the street lamp made its silhouette sharper than any ink could.
In March a girl with paint on her cuffs came in with a shoebox of coins and asked to see it. She didn't play it. She held it by the neck, tipped it towards the window and laughed at the lettering, reading it backwards in the glass. Then she counted out the interest, every penny of it, and set the box on the counter.
The ticket was still in my drawer when I locked up that night. I left it there. The guitar stayed on the wall, and on Fridays I hear, faintly, a chord come up through the floorboards from the flat above, always the same one, always too loud.
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