Black and grey cat head tattoo with a star and geometric lines on the inner forearm of a person in a white top and grey joggers.

Cat head within geometric lines on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black ink cat head sits at the centre of a diamond-shaped frame of fine geometric lines, with a small star above and a dotted line hanging below. The cat's face is shaded with solid black areas and fine detail, and the framing lines are crisp and symmetrical. The photograph is black and white, showing the forearm against a tiled wall with the person's white top and grey joggers visible.

Geometric Blackwork Forearm Cat Star Geometric line Diamond Dotted line

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You unlock the back door at half four with flour still ground into the cuffs from yesterday, and the cat is already on the step, sitting as squarely as a bookend. It stands when you do, walks in past your boots without asking, and takes up its post on the scale with the air of someone checking your weights.

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Nobody on Larkin Street knows whose she is. She turns up each morning the way the first light arrives over the car park, neither early nor late, and you stopped trying to shoo her months ago. You set out the tins in their neat rows, the rye, the tin loaves, the sourdough scored in a clean cross, and she watches every tray slide into the oven with her ears angled like the points of a small, deliberate compass.

The morning the flour delivery is late, you are short-tempered and clumsy. A sack splits across the floor, a tray of rolls goes over, and you snap at nobody in particular. The cat does not flinch. She steps through the spill in neat little prints, sits in the middle of the mess, and begins washing one white paw as if it were the only thing in the room that needed doing. You laugh despite yourself and fetch the brush.

By six the ovens are roaring and the windows have gone the colour of weak tea. You prop the door open to let the warmth out, and she goes to the threshold and waits in the rectangle of morning, the star over the car park fading as the sun takes over. You tell her what you always tell her, that she can have the heel of the first loaf once the crust has stopped ticking.