Fine line pink infinity symbol with the word love written in script across it, on the inner wrist and forearm.

Infinity symbol and love script on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A thin pink line tattoo forms an infinity symbol with the word love in cursive script running along its lower loop. The linework is delicate and even, with no shading, and the single colour stands out against the pale skin. The close-up framing centres the design on the wrist, with a grey surface visible at the top edge and dark fabric at the bottom.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Infinity Love Script Wrist

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Right, shift up and mind the Tesco bags. You know the block, fourteen storeys of wet concrete with a lift that sighs before it moves. On the ninth floor lived Mrs Okafor, who had a ball of pink wool her sister posted from Leeds, the colour of boiled sweets, and she wouldn't let anybody touch it. Her husband Dele drove the night buses and came home at six with his cap in his hand, and she kept that wool by the window so she'd always have something to do with her fingers while she waited.

Keep reading

Across the courtyard, on the fourteenth, lived a lad called Terry Pike who could whistle through his teeth loud enough to crack a windowpane. Every evening at seven he whistled three notes, and every evening she tied the end of the wool to the rail and let it drop. Down it went past the bins and the washing lines, and Terry caught it with a hook he'd bent from a coat hanger. Up it came again, round the drainpipe, back to her, until the whole thing ran like a figure of eight stitched between the two blocks.

Nobody wrote anything down. The council had ears in every stairwell. Instead there were knots. One knot meant the kettle was on. Two meant come up for tea. Three twists in a loop meant the thing neither of them ever said out loud. Over one winter that line went back and forth so often it wore a groove in the rail, and the caretaker swore the building had gone soft in the middle.

Then in March the wool stopped coming down. I went up with a plate of rice and found her window open, the net curtain moving, and the pink thread tied off neatly on the radiator in a little loop, the sort you make when you mean to come back. Terry searched the courtyard with a torch every night for a month. So when people ask me whether it ends, I tell them no. Now pass me that tin, my throat's gone dry.