Black and grey photo of a small black infinity symbol tattoo on the back of a person's neck, with hair pulled up and hoop earrings visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Infinity symbol on the back of the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small black infinity symbol sits centrally on the nape of the neck, photographed from behind. The thin, even linework is solid black with no shading, and the image is black and grey. The subject's hair is pulled up and hoop earrings are visible at either side, with the tattoo as the clear focal point against the skin.

Fine line Neck Infinity Infinity symbol Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the rain's coming through the canvas now and I'll not shout over it. You want to know about the ribbon man of Calder Street market? Everyone who worked those stalls knew him by the squeal of his cart, two wheels that never quite agreed. He sold lengths of silk and grosgrain off a wooden spindle, and he never cut a ribbon short. A woman would ask for a yard, and he'd measure a yard, then turn the spool over and keep going, round and round the bar, until the bolt was spent.

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Mrs Okonkwo from the fish stall asked him once what he did with the ends. He said there were no ends. Take a strip of ribbon, give it one half twist, and stitch the two tails together, and you had a loop with no start and no finish. That, he said, was the only honest shape a promise could take, and he wouldn't sell anyone a broken one.

Then a boy came down from the estate one wet Thursday, wanting a ribbon to tie up his dead father's letters. He had scissors in his coat pocket and he kept touching them through the wool. The ribbon man looked at him a long while, then took down the black silk, twisted it once, and sewed the tails shut in front of him. He said, you'll have to untie it to read them, and that's the trouble with a knot that won't come undone. The boy paid in coppers and walked off without a word, the rain running off his cap.

Years after, the boy came back with grey at his temples and his own child on his hip. The loop still hung from the hook above the spindle, faded to the colour of wet slate. He lifted it down, ran his thumb along the seam, and laughed until he had to sit on a crate. The rain kept drumming on the awning, and the ribbon man, who had never once cut a length short, let it hang where it was.