A hand holding black cat-eye sunglasses, showing a small black script tattoo on the inner forearm near the wrist, with partly visible lettering.

Black script wrist tattoo with cat-eye sunglasses

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand holding black oversized cat-eye sunglasses against a pale corrugated wall, with a silver ring on one finger and dark nail polish. A small black script tattoo sits on the inner wrist, and only part of the lettering is visible, reading roughly as "ptain of my". The tattoo is in black ink with crisp, thin linework, and the photo is in bright natural daylight with a plain, neutral background.

Lettering Forearm Script Lettering Sunglasses Hand Wrist Ring

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Oona, the mail skiff came in on the tide yesterday with your letter folded inside a dented biscuit tin, so I know the postmistress at Greyhithe still takes her cut in tinned peaches. I read it twice on the slipway while the gulls argued over the fish scraps. You asked whether I still wear the black cat-eye glasses on the ferry run. I do. The lenses have faded to the colour of a bruise, but the frames are sound, and Halloran swears the arms will outlast the hull.

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Things are hard here. The cooling line froze again in the cold snap, and we lost two nights of pumping. Tessa split her palm on the valve wheel and bound it in a strip of old sailcloth, and I sat with her while the lamp burned down. She laughed when I said the sea was not in a mood to take us. She said the sea is never in a mood, which is exactly why we have to be. Captain Vell still stands on the bridge deck at dusk with his hands behind his back, reciting the old verse he learned from a book nobody else has ever read, the one about being master of one's fate.

He went below last week and did not come up for three days. On the fourth morning I found him asleep in the galley with his cheek on the chart table, and I took the wheel myself because someone had to. The sun came up over the drowned towers behind us, orange then gold, and the glasses sat on the console beside the compass, catching every colour of it. I stood there steering a rust bucket through the shallows, and I thought, well, here I am. Tell your mother I am the captain of my own small ship now, and I have never been so glad to be wrong about something.