Black and grey lettering with a brown and grey knife illustration on the upper thigh, reading I see a tattoo on my right thigh that I will probably regret one day.

Knife and quote tattoo on the thigh

Lettering · Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A close photograph of a tattoo on the front of a person's upper thigh, with the wearer's hands and denim shorts visible at the top of the frame. The centre of the design is a knife illustration with a brown handle and grey blade, with block capital text above and below it. The text is set in dark ink with simple shading and a plain, fairly even composition.

Lettering Thigh Knife Quote Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dilys had the grafting knife open on the wooden bench before the sun cleared the top of the Bramley row, its brown handle worn pale where three generations of thumbs had rested. "Hold the stock steady," she told Owen, who was eleven and had already announced twice that he was too old to be told things by his aunt. "Clean cut. Like you mean it."

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He meant it, badly. The first wedge slid sideways and the blade skated across the cambium, leaving a long white scar on the rootstock. Dilys studied it for a long moment and then pronounced it acceptable, which was how she said most things. She had taken the knife from her father's coat pocket the autumn he died, and she had never once sharpened it in front of anybody, because she said a knife you watch being sharpened is a knife you stop trusting.

By noon the wasps had found the windfalls and Owen had made eleven grafts, four of which would take. He sat on an upturned crate turning the knife over in his grubby palm, reading the stamped letters on the blade as if they might explain something. "Did you ever cut yourself?" he asked. "Every single year," Dilys said. "Thumb, mostly. Your grandad used to say the orchard takes a little blood so the fruit doesn't have to."

He tied the last graft with raffia and sealed it in wax, and when the bell from the lane sounded for lunch he ran off without the knife. Dilys found it later under the bench, folded shut and still faintly sticky with sap, and she put it back in her apron pocket where it belonged.