Fine line black ink infinity symbol with the words you and me in script on the back of a hand, with fingers clasped around it.

Infinity symbol with you and me on the hand

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two clasped hands show a thin black infinity symbol with the words "you" and "me" written in cursive script, the words sitting inside the loops of the symbol. The linework is fine and even, with no shading, and the ink appears solid black. The composition is close and centred on the tattoo, with knitted sleeves and painted nails visible at the edges of the frame.

Fine line Lettering Hand Infinity Infinity symbol Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the time the tide-engine coughs its third note of the morning, you have already decided to keep it running another day. The crew left on the last shuttle before the frost came in, taking the good spanners and the children's drawings from the galley hatch. What they left you is a wall of brass dials, a cabinet of paper logs, and a slate on which someone long gone scratched two words in a looping hand: you and me.

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Ilse wrote them. She ran the sluice gates before you, and she drew the loop without lifting her stylus, the way she said a promise ought to be drawn. The words sit inside the curve like something kept safe in a pocket of rope. In your first winter, when the glass froze over and the dials went blank, you traced that figure of eight with a gloved finger until you knew the sequence of the valves by heart. Each loop is a gate. Each crossing is a moment when the water can go either way.

The relay crackles at dusk. It is the other station, the one on the far shore of the reach, and the voice belongs to a woman you have never met but have argued with for eleven years in the margins of shared logs. She says the crossing valve has seized on her side. Only the two of you can open it together, one turning from each bank, and the tide will not wait for the thaw.

You go down to the crossing with a lamp and a rope. Out on the black water a second lamp answers yours, small and steady. You put your hand on the wheel, count three, and turn. Somewhere under the ice the old channel groans and opens, and the water runs both ways at once, the way it was always meant to.