Black and grey fine line tattoo of a small lightning bolt above two linked circles on the back of a hand, which is holding a coffee cup.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Lightning bolt and circles on the hand

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand holds a takeaway coffee cup outdoors on a paved pavement. A small tattoo of a lightning bolt and two open circles sits on the back of the hand near the wrist, drawn in thin black linework with no shading. The black and white photograph has a shallow focus, with the cup lid in sharp detail and the paving blurred behind.

Fine line Hand Lightning bolt Circle Coffee cup

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The round glasses arrived at the lost property office on a wet Tuesday, wrapped in a paper napkin from a coffee shop on Deansgate, and Maureen Pike knew before she unfolded them that trouble had come in with them. The left lens had a crack running from the rim like forked lightning, and tucked inside the napkin was a note in blue biro: Found these on the pavement outside the bus station. Didn't want anyone to tread on them.

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She logged them under miscellaneous eyewear, as the rules said, and went back to the kettle. But the glasses kept pulling at her. Over the next fortnight a man in a grey mac came in twice asking after spectacles with a crack in them, a schoolgirl wanted to know whether anything resembling owl eyes had been handed in, and a courier left a sealed envelope holding a single bolt-shaped sticker and no return address. Maureen started keeping the glasses on her desk, under the stapler, where she could see them from the hatch.

On the third Friday she took the napkin out and read the note properly. Someone had been careful with a stranger's property and then nobody had come to claim it. She decided the owner was not going to walk in, so she would have to go and look. Her lunch break was twelve minutes, and she spent it on the kerb outside the bus station with a flat white going cold in one hand and the glasses in the other, watching umbrellas bob past.

At twenty to two a young man stopped dead, looked at the glasses, then at her, and laughed so hard he had to sit down on the kerb beside her. He had dropped them chasing the 43 in January and had been too embarrassed to ask. Maureen handed them over, pocketed the napkin, and walked back to the office with a clean, empty cup and a bolt of crumpled paper in her coat.