Small black fine line tattoo of a heart with swirling loops on the inner wrist, with a hand resting on a car steering wheel.

Fine line heart on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows a small tattoo of a heart on the inner wrist of a hand that is gripping the top of a steering wheel. The heart is drawn in a thin, continuous black line, with looping curls and a swirl at its upper edge. The ink is solid black against pale skin, and the background is a car interior with a dashboard and a steering wheel.

Fine line Forearm Heart Swirl Loop Hand

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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

Sit down, the both of you, and keep your hands where the guard can see them, because this is the part of the story where everybody gets nervous. There was a woman who worked the night shift at a crossing much like this one, a wire fence, a tin hut and a kettle that never quite boiled. Her name was Ines Varga, and she had one job, which was to pull a pen across a ledger without ever lifting it. Her father had taught her that. A line that lifts is a line that lies, he used to say.

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Every car that came up to her window she would ask for the papers, and while the driver fumbled in the glovebox, she would draw. Not a map, not a face. Loops, one after another, folding back on themselves like a dog settling down, until the loops closed into a shape that sat at the top of the page and dipped to a point. Then a curl at the top, a swirl like the tail of a comet. The drivers took her for bored. Nobody ever asked what it was.

The winter the river froze, a lorry came up the road with no papers at all, only a child asleep under a blanket on the bench seat and a man who could not stop shaking. Ines did not ask him anything. She took his wrist, turned it palm up in the lamplight, and drew the shape on the soft skin there with the same pen, one unbroken line, and told him to hold still and keep his eyes on it until the gate rose.

The gate rose at dawn. Years later, when the ledger was finally retired to the back of a cupboard, somebody leafed through it and found the same shape on every page, running from the top margin to the bottom without a single break. Nobody could say how many cars she had let through. But the line had never once lifted, and that, my friends, is the only reason any of you are sitting here now.