Black and grey photo of a small black lettering tattoo of latitude and longitude coordinates across the upper chest near the collarbone.

Coordinates tattoo across the upper chest

Lettering · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey photograph of a small tattoo reading 40°44' 48"N 73°59'38"W, set in a clean serif typeface across the upper chest near the collarbone. The letters have crisp, solid black outlines with soft shading in the surrounding skin, and the monochrome photo has gentle shadows and a bright curve at the top right. The composition is close and centred on the text, with the skin texture and tonal gradients filling the frame.

Lettering Chest Coordinates Number Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wire arrived at ten past four, typed in capitals by a clerk in Halifax who had never once written to Ada Frost. There was no name on it and no message, only the numbers: forty degrees, forty-four minutes, forty-eight seconds north, and seventy-three degrees, fifty-nine minutes, thirty-eight seconds west. Someone had taken the trouble to spell out every second, as if afraid the rounding would lose him.

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She found the place on the atlas in the typing pool's cabinet, a crowded corner where the streets gave up their grid. Her brother Tom had sold newspapers there the winter before he shipped out, under a clock that never agreed with the man who wound it. He had promised to wait under that clock whatever the city did, and she had laughed at him for being so soft about a street corner. Now she sat with the slip in her lap and the keys cold under her fingers.

On Saturday she took the elevated uptown, gripping the rail as the carriage swayed past the gasworks, and stood on the pavement with her collar buttoned to the throat. The clock was still there, a few minutes slow. The newsboys had changed, but one of them, a thin boy with a hole in his cap, looked her up and down and asked whether she was waiting for someone. She said she supposed she was, and he shrugged and went back to shouting headlines nobody wanted.

The letter came a fortnight later, with a Halifax postmark and no return address. Inside was a single sheet and one line in Tom's careless hand: You always did read maps upside down, Ada. Ada read it twice, then laughed until the typist at the next desk looked up. He had sent her the numbers of the corner, not the city, and she had spent a week looking at the whole island.