Black handwritten script tattoo reading I know you might roll your eyes at this, but I'm so glad that you exist, shown on a forearm and an upper thigh.

Handwritten quote tattoo on forearm and thigh

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two close-up photographs show the same handwritten quote in black ink, one on the forearm and one on the upper thigh. The lettering is a slanted, slightly uneven script built from thin, consistent strokes with no shading. The stacked pair of images sits against a dark background, with the text running across the skin in each shot.

Lettering Forearm Thigh Quote Handwriting Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Ashworth Road Community Hall smelled of floor polish and warm sausage rolls, and Marnie found Dev Haskett standing by the tea urn, holding a paper plate like a shield. Twenty-two years had passed since Mr Ellery's chemistry class, and he still stood with his weight on one foot, as if he might need to leave quickly. When he saw her he didn't wave. He just reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a square of lined paper folded into quarters, soft at the creases.

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She knew the handwriting before she unfolded it. It leaned to the right and wobbled on the downstrokes, the way his had looked on every note he'd slipped into her locker that spring. The sentence ran across the middle of the page: I know you might roll your eyes at this, but I'm so glad that you exist. She had told him his canal poem was soppy, and he had written this back the next morning, and she had laughed at it in the corridor and then never answered. Eleven notes, she realised, were still in a shoebox in her mum's loft, each one unanswered because she had been too proud to be the first to say anything true.

"I nearly didn't come," Dev said. "I thought you'd still be cross about the poem."

"I'm still cross about the poem," she said, and he grinned, and for a moment they were fifteen again, standing too close to the squash table. She held out her hand. He gave her the biro from his lanyard, which leaked a little blue onto his thumb. Marnie turned the paper plate over, smoothed it on her knee, and wrote the sentence underneath his, in her own careful capitals, slanting the wrong way on purpose.

Dev read it twice, then folded the plate in half and tucked it into his jacket with the note. "You're still rubbish at joined-up writing," he said. Marnie told him to get her a sausage roll, and he did, and neither of them mentioned the shoebox.