Close-up of a fine line script word tattooed in black ink on the inner wrist and forearm, with a grey sleeve pushed up.

Fine line script word on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single word is written in thin, joined cursive script in dark ink along the inner wrist and lower forearm. The linework is even and delicate, with no shading, and the lettering runs diagonally across the skin. The arm rests on a pale background with a grey sleeve pushed up, and the soft lighting keeps the focus on the tattoo.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word Cursive

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift at Harrowgate House has been out since March, so I know every stair between the ground floor and the fourteenth by its own particular creak. On the eleventh landing the bin chute is taped shut with a sheet of paper reading DO NOT in Mr Quayle's careful capitals. For six weeks I have carried his post up to him, because his knees have given up and the council has given up on us. He pays me in ginger biscuits and a slow, grudging thank you.

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My nan used to say the long bill always comes due. You put a stone in someone's shoe and one day you are walking barefoot on gravel. I laughed at her until the Tuesday I found a purse under the bench at the bus shelter, fat with coins and a photograph of a grey dog. I took it to the address on the library card inside. The woman who answered was a nurse just off nights, still in her navy tunic, and she wrote a word on the back of an envelope for me to take home. Karma, she said, tracing it slowly with one finger. It was the only word she had ever seen that looked like it was running for a bus.

I thought about that word the morning Mr Quayle's letter came back stamped return to sender, the council's final answer, and I felt the old familiar sink in my chest. Then I climbed the stairs again with the notice in my coat and found the chute door unlatched, three bags of rubbish stacked neatly beside it, and a note in a hand I didn't know: Took his bags down. Don't tell the old man.

I didn't tell him. I read him the council's refusal in my worst voice instead, and he laughed until he coughed and reached for another biscuit. On the way down I counted the floors out loud, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, and somewhere around the eleventh landing the weight in my coat felt lighter than it had all month.