Small black fine line tattoo of the Eiffel Tower above the word Merci in script, on the ankle.

Eiffel Tower and Merci on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of the Eiffel Tower with ornate detailing sits above the cursive word Merci. The linework is thin and dark with dotted accents on the tower and simple outlines on the base, and there is no shading. The tattoo is shown in close-up against a plain dark background, with the skin lit evenly.

Fine line Ankle Eiffel tower Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mrs Hebble had sorted the post at the Saltergate sorting office for nineteen years and had never once been tempted to read a postcard. Yet the one that arrived on a wet Tuesday in March 1956 made her sit down on the stool by the pigeonholes. The picture showed a tower of iron lace, grey as a kettle, with a Paris postmark pressed over a stamp of a woman in a bonnet.

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The card was addressed to a Miss Ada Pilling at the Crown Street haberdashery, and the sender was a Monsieur Lucien Garnier, whom Ada had never met. Their correspondence had started with a hem. He had written asking whether the Yorkshire wool she sold was the same as the tweed he could not get in Montmartre, and she had answered with a sample pinned to the page. Forty letters later, neither of them had mentioned the weather.

Mrs Hebble delivered the card herself that afternoon, because it was raining and the post boy was hopeless. Ada was behind the counter, unpicking a child's coat. She read the card twice, then turned it over and looked at the tower again, as if it might have shifted. "He says he's coming to Leeds on the boat train in May," she said. "He wants to know if the shop is open on Sundays."

"Is it?"

"It isn't." Ada folded the card into her apron pocket and reached for the scissors. "I shall have to think of something to tell him."

That night she wrote her reply at the kitchen table, pen scratching under the wireless. She told him the shop shut at one on Saturdays and that the Sunday tram ran from the station out to the moors. At the bottom she added a line in her best hand, then sat looking at it. The word was small enough to sit beneath the drawing of a tower he had sent her, the one with lace at its feet. Merci, she wrote, and for the first time in forty letters she did not cross it out.