Woman seen from behind with a fine line gold-toned hamsa hand tattoo on her upper back, with a small crescent moon tattoo on her upper arm.

Gold hamsa hand tattoo on upper back

Fine line · Back · Colour · Photo

A woman with her hair in a bun, seen from behind, shows a fine line hamsa hand tattoo centred on her upper back, with a short line of small script above it. The linework is delicate and the hand is outlined with a gold-toned or metallic-looking ink. A small crescent moon tattoo is visible on her upper arm, and the plain white strappy top frames the design against a pale background.

Fine line Back Upper arm Hamsa Hand Script Crescent moon

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The dough had been proving since two, and Halina Bakr had already burnt the first tray of rolls because her hands kept drifting to the tin on the high shelf above the proving cabinet. Her mother had kept it there for thirty years, between the sack of rye and the clock that ran four minutes fast. Inside, under a square of waxed paper, lay a brass hamsa no bigger than a thumbnail, its fingers worn smooth, and a note in blue biro: Keep the palm open and the eye gets bored.

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Joe came in at twenty to five with flour already on his forearms and the radio muttering about the motorway. He saw the tin open on the bench and said nothing, which was the first thing Halina had liked about him when he arrived in March. He weighed the salt. She scored the first batch with the long blade, the usual diagonal cuts, and then stopped, the knife hovering over a round loaf that had risen soft and pale as a moon behind cloud.

She took a bench scraper instead and pressed it into the dough, once, twice, until five fingers and a thumb sat in the crust like the marks a child makes in wet sand. Joe watched her do it and didn't ask. The oven door opened on a breath of heat, and the loaves went in with their small hands turned up to the light.

At six the sky over the car park went the colour of weak tea. Halina pulled the hand loaf out first and tapped its base the way her mother used to, listening for hollowness. It rang true. She split it on the board and the crumb steamed open, and the scored palm peeled apart into its five pale fingers, every one of them still wide open.