Fine line script phrase on inner forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A small fine line script phrase sits across the inner forearm, with the words running diagonally from left to right. The linework is thin and even, in solid black ink with no shading. The bare skin contrasts against a striped top and a soft, shadowed background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The queue at the crossing has not moved in nine hours, and the lorry's engine ticks as it cools. You have read the same paperback twice, and the dashboard clock has given up pretending the night is going anywhere. Through the windscreen, a customs officer in a navy fleece walks the line with a torch, stopping at each cab to look up at the faces, as if the drivers might have changed while he wasn't watching.
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When he reaches you, he doesn't ask for the manifest. He asks whether you are carrying anything you have not declared, and you say only a sack of onions and a grudge against Tuesdays. He almost smiles. He tells you the scanner at the far gate has jammed again, that the lads on nights keep feeding it their sandwiches. Then he taps the door twice, the way his grandfather used to tap a barometer, and says, Be still. It'll sort itself out.
You don't believe him, but you do as he says. You switch off the radio and let the cab fill with the sound of rain on the roof. Somewhere ahead a barrier lifts and drops, lifts and drops, and for once you stop counting the cycles. A little after three the officer comes back with your papers. On the back of the top sheet, in pencil, he has added the rest of what he meant: and know. You fold it into the sun visor. The gate opens, and you drive out into a country that has no idea you were ever in the queue.
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