Fine line script lettering on an inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand and forearm with a small script phrase tattooed across the inner wrist. The thin, delicate linework is pale and low in contrast, so the words are hard to read in this light. The background is a black car steering wheel and a blurred instrument cluster, with a keyring hanging at the edge of the frame.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Phrase Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The car park behind the Co-op was the only place in Hadleigh where nobody had known me at fourteen, so I sat in it with the engine off and the keys still hooked on one finger, watching the windows of the Royal Oak light up one by one. Dad's old estate smelled of pine air freshener and the pipe tobacco he'd given up in 1998 and never quite let go of. The dashboard clock said twenty to eight. I was supposed to be inside by eight.

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Inside, Janine Bexley would be telling everyone about her three boys and the conservatory. I had rehearsed my answers on the A road. Married, no. Pharmacy at the Cottage Hospital, yes. Still in the same flat, which was true and sounded worse out loud than I meant it. I turned the wheel an inch each way, the way Dad taught me to keep a car honest, and thought about the folded slip in the glovebox.

It was from Mr Okonjo's Year Eleven English, a note in fountain pen tucked inside the back cover of my planner. Be brave on Tuesdays, it said, underlined twice, as if he'd known Tuesdays were when I always gave up. I never told anyone what it meant. I just kept it, the way you keep a spare key for a door you don't expect to open.

I pocketed the keys, pulled my sleeves down over my wrists and walked across the gravel in my good cardigan. Janine saw me first through the doorway and shouted my old surname across the bar. For once it didn't sound like an accusation. It sounded like a register being called, and I was there to answer.