Small black lettering reading let it be on the upper back of a person with brown hair, with a tattooist's gloved finger pointing at it.

Let it be lettering on upper back

Lettering · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of the lowercase words let it be in a thin, black, typewriter-style serif font sits on the upper back near the neck. The linework is fine and even, with no shading. The skin is warm-toned and the image is a close crop with a gloved finger from the tattooist resting beside the design.

Lettering Fine line Back Let it be Text Phrase

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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

The function room above the Crown still has the swirly carpet you remember from the Year Eleven disco, and someone has blu-tacked a photocopied class photo to the door, so the first thing you see is a row of fourteen-year-olds squinting into the sun. You find your own face third from the left and decide it belongs to somebody else. Behind the bar, a man in a Leeds shirt is holding a name badge up to the light, trying to work out who he is.

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Denise Hartley corners you by the crisps. She has not forgiven you for the netball final in 1998, and she says so with a smile far too wide for the accusation. You talk about mortgages and her twins and the Vauxhall she wants to sell, all the while waiting for her to mention the slip of paper. She does. Mr Pryce's typewriter, the one he kept in the stock cupboard, the one you were supposed to have returned. She digs a folded card from her clutch and hands it over. Your name is typed across the top above a detention for talking during assembly. Underneath, in the same clacking capitals that never lost their dignity, someone has typed three lowercase words, the e pressed so hard it nearly tore through: let it be.

You remember now. It was you, a wet Thursday, and Denise crying in the cloakroom over her dad's redundancy. You typed the words to make her laugh, a joke that was almost a prayer, and you were too young to know the difference.

You fold the card into your inside pocket, go back to the bar, and buy two of the lurid blue cocktails nobody here would ever order sober. Denise takes hers without a word, and for once you both look at the photograph on the door and laugh at the girl who thought it was all so serious.