Black and grey fine line tattoo of a thin horizontal line with small inverted triangles on a woman's upper back, below the neck.

Fine line triangles on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A thin horizontal line runs across the upper back with a small outlined inverted triangle at its centre, beside a smaller solid triangle and a filled shape that partly overlaps it. The linework is delicate and even, with minimal shading and no colour. The photograph is black and white, framed close on the shoulders and neck, with the subject's face turned away from the camera.

Fine line Geometric Back Line Triangle Geometric shape

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tamsin had drawn the night shift on the levelling run because Ada, who usually held the staff, had gone to Lisbon for her sister's wedding. By twenty to midnight the streetlamps along the Ouse had gone the colour of weak tea, and the river beside them moved without a sound. She set the level on its tripod at the foot of the steps, squinted through the eyepiece and read the staff that her new assistant, a lad called Kieran, held upright against the old iron bollard.

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The line they were running was simple on paper. A thin straight chain of readings from the Quayside bench mark to the footbridge, each height checked against the last, so the city would know decades on how far its ground had sunk. Every pillar along it carried a mark: a small outlined triangle cut into the stone, point down, the surveyor's sign for a fixed and trusted height. Beside one of them, where the granite had cracked, someone long ago had chiselled a solid triangle, a warning rather than a promise.

Kieran asked why the old marks were drawn point down. Tamsin told him the truth, that point down meant the weight went through the apex into the ground and stayed there. He wrote the reading in his book, then wrote it again, pressing hard. At one in the morning the figure came up two millimetres out from the last pillar, and she made him check it three times while the signals changed for nobody.

The fault was the bollard. Its base had shifted in the winter floods and the mark beside it had slid down with it. She took the pencil from his hand, ruled a neat line across the page and sat on the wet kerb with the level across her knees until the first bus crossed the bridge and the ticket office window lit gold, as if someone had decided the morning was allowed to begin.