Black and grey fine line tattoo of four geometric triangle and symbol shapes in a row on a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Four geometric triangle symbols on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A row of four single-line geometric symbols sits along the forearm: two triangles with overlapping inner lines, a triangle with a short bar across its top, and a triangle topped by a small circle. The lines are thin, even and solid black, with no shading. The photograph is black and white, shot close up with a soft blurred background.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Triangle Geometric shape Symbol Circle Line art

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The chalk marks appeared on the slate by the scullery door the week the herring boats came in short. Mrs Hobday found them first, four small shapes in a row, no bigger than a thumbnail, and she had wiped out the first two with her apron before she thought better of it. Nobody in the boarding house would own them. The lodgers were a retired bank clerk, two sisters from Leeds who did crosswords in the lounge, and Mr Tremayne, who had taken the attic room in March and paid by the week in coppers.

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Mr Tremayne was the only one who rose before the gulls. Mrs Hobday caught him at the slate on Thursday, the stub of chalk held between two fingers the way a surgeon holds a pen. He told her the marks were a sort of timetable. The triangle with its inner twin meant the tide was turning. The one with a bar across its top meant the wind would hold from the west. The triangle with a little ring above it was a boat coming home. He did not explain the fourth, which was only a point, and he rubbed it out with his thumb as though it embarrassed him.

On Sunday the boat named for his late wife came round the headland an hour before anyone expected. Mrs Hobday stood at the window with the kettle shrieking behind her and counted the masts twice. Four, as always, and the Brenda Ann among them with her sails already furled. When she turned back to the scullery, the slate had a fresh row beneath the old one, the same shapes, and at the end of it a ring drawn so hard the chalk had snapped. Mr Tremayne had gone back up the stairs without his coat. Mrs Hobday, who in eleven years of lodgers had never once read a single one of his signs, found she was wiping the slate down with a dry cloth, very gently, the way you close a book you mean to open again.