Black and white photo of a fine line wave tattoo on the upper back of a woman whose hair covers her face, with one hand raised to her head.

Fine line wave on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A woman is photographed from behind with her face hidden by her hair and one hand raised to her head. A small, single-line wave tattoo sits on the upper back near the shoulder blade, drawn in thin black linework with no shading. The image is black and white with soft, low lighting and a shallow focus that keeps attention on the tattoo and the bare shoulders.

Fine line Back Wave Hair Hand Back Shoulder

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The plums had split on the branch before anyone thought to pick them, and by the second week of September the grass under the Pennington trees was sticky with them and loud with wasps. My grandfather used to say the wasps knew the weather better than the Met Office. He said a lot of things like that, usually while standing in the middle of a row with his hands on his hips, staring up at the sky as if it owed him money.

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That was the summer my cousin Elin came to stay and decided she would not help. She lay on the tailgate of the old Land Rover with her hair spread out across the metal, reading a paperback about a shipwreck, and every so often she would lift one hand and wave it at the orchard as if it were a sea she was watching from a distance. Grandad pretended not to see. I pretended I was too busy to mind.

On the last Saturday we drove down to the reservoir at the bottom of the valley, the one with the concrete lip where the water came over in a thin white sheet. Elin walked straight out along the edge, arms out, and when the wind came off the surface it pushed her hair back from her face and she looked, for a moment, like someone who had never once been told to pick anything up. I stood on the bank with a bruised plum in my pocket and wanted to be angry about it.

We drove home with the windows down and the plums rolling about in the footwell. Grandad stopped at the gate, switched off the engine, and said nothing for so long that the cooling metal began to tick. Then he reached over and pressed a plum into my palm, still warm from the sun. It was the only one left that wasn't split, and he said it was mine to keep, which was the closest he ever came to saying he understood.