Small fine line black tattoo of the Libra scales zodiac symbol on the inner wrist, with succulents in a pot behind.

Libra scales symbol on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A raised hand with lilac nails shows a small black tattoo of the Libra zodiac symbol, a horizontal line above a curved arc, on the inner wrist. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink is solid black against the skin. The tattoo sits centrally in the frame, with succulent plants and gravel blurred in the background.

Fine line Forearm Scale Zodiac symbol Wrist Succulent

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the lot of you, the stove's going out and this one's a long telling, so mind the sawdust under your boots. Down at the Marrowby Ballroom, out on the pier where the gulls fight over chips, a brass pair of scales hung bolted above the cloakroom hatch. Nobody weighed anything on them. Old Mrs Pym kept them there because her father had, and because, she always said, a dance was the only honest contract in town: two people, one floor, and nobody allowed to lean.

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The trouble came the spring Walter Fenn won the county cup and decided the whole floor belonged to him. He shoved the young clerks aside and tried to buy his way to the best slot by slipping a sovereign onto one of the pans. The scales tipped towards the coin, the way money always tips things, and he laughed and called it a fine joke. Mrs Pym lifted the sovereign off with two fingers, set it in his palm, and said, "Balance isn't bought, love. It's kept."

He had one more go at it on the last waltz of the night, pushing his partner, the widow Jane Ostler, through every turn as if the room were a race. She gave back every push, no more and no less, until he was the one stumbling, the band slowing under them, the two of them meeting in the middle of the boards at the same moment. Above the hatch, the brass pans stopped swinging for the first time that year.

Mrs Pym polished the scales with her apron when the hall had emptied. Some of you will say it's a daft tale about a bit of old metal. Maybe so. But the sill by the hatch still holds a fat little succulent that never wants watering, and the scales still hang level when anyone who comes through the door is honest with their feet. Now pay me in tea, and mind the step going out.