Two forearms crossed at the wrists, with a fine line black fork tattoo on one arm and a matching knife tattoo on the other.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fork and knife tattoos on two forearms

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two arms are crossed at the wrists against a plain white background, with the hands resting together. A thin black outline of a fork sits on one forearm and a knife on the other, both drawn in simple single lines with small added marks near the wrist. The tattoos are small and clean, and the pale, even lighting keeps the linework sharp and easy to see.

Fine line Forearm Knife Outline

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The night canteen at Hollins General ran on two urns and whatever was left in the drawers by ten o'clock. By the time Ruth Penhale came off the children's ward at four in the morning, the cutlery was always in the wrong trays: forks in with the knives, spoons stacked on the sugar. She counted what remained twice before she sat down. Only one fork and one knife had survived the dishwasher's last tantrum, and they lay side by side on a paper napkin like two people waiting to be called in.

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Nobody knew where they had come from. The old infirmary across the road had been emptied in a hurry when the wards moved, and the boxes were labelled in three different hands. Ruth decided they must have been a pair from some long-gone staff dinner, matched for life before anyone thought to make things match. She began carrying them in her cardigan pocket on the long shifts. The porters found it funny. The sister on Ward Four did not, until the night the fork pinned a bread roll to a tray while Ruth cut the butter, and Mr Adeyemi in bed nine laughed so hard his monitor started shrieking.

At six, the agency nurse who was covering the rota swept the napkin into the bin with the crusts. Ruth fished it out again and found the fork had bent a tine on the lid. She straightened it against the edge of the sink, then the knife, then took a biro from her pocket and drew a tiny cross on the handle of each, the way her father used to mark the tools that were his and not the shed's.

In the morning she left them in the top drawer with a note in her neat ward hand: Please keep these together. Someone had already crossed out please, and underneath, in pencil, written Obviously.