Two forearms with white and metallic temporary tattoos reading Bride and Team Bride, with dotted outlines and hearts.

Bride and Team Bride temporary wrist designs

Lettering · Forearm · Colour · Photo

Two forearms are shown close together, each with a temporary transfer design. The left reads Bride in white script with a white outlined heart and a gold heart, and the right reads TEAM in white serif capitals above a white Bride script with silver and gold hearts. Both designs use solid white ink with a dotted border and metallic foil accents, photographed against a plain light background.

Lettering Forearm Bride Script Heart Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain has found the gap in the awning at Mill Lane market and is running off the brim of your hood in a thin, steady line. Half the stalls are already folding their trestles. The man selling wedding favours at the end, the one with the cardboard sign that says Everything Half Price Before Dark, is shovelling boxes of sugared almonds under a tarpaulin. You have forty minutes before the hen party coach leaves the car park, and a list in your coat pocket that you wrote in a hurry, with Bride underlined twice.

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'Last sheet,' he says, lifting a plastic wallet of transfers off the wet table. White ink, a dotted border, two little foil hearts. You flick through them. TEAM sits in plain serif capitals above a looping script Bride that someone's cousin has clearly been practising for weeks. 'For the wrists,' he says. 'They'll see you through the first two pubs. After that you'll be picking the edges off with your nails until Tuesday.'

You pay him in coins that are mostly damp. Your phone is at four per cent, and the driver has texted that he is not waiting past three. You jog through the puddles toward the car park, the bag knocking your hip, the wallet crackling against your ribs like something that might still be lucky.

In the car park, Marnie has the door open before you reach it. She is already shaking the rain off the sheet you pass her, squinting at the words as the wipers tick across the windscreen. 'Right,' she says. 'Who's sticking these on whom?' You hold out the backing paper, which has come off the wrong way round, so the B reads backwards on your side. You decide that suits you fine.