Two side by side photos of a fine line tattoo of three looped lines with three small hearts above, on the inner forearm near the wrist, one panel in black and red and blue, the other in black only.

Looped ribbon and three hearts on wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows three open loops joined by sweeping lines, with a small heart above each loop. In the left photo the hearts are filled red, red and blue, while the right photo shows the same design in black with outlined hearts. The two images are placed side by side as a collage, with the tattoo centred on plain skin.

Fine line Forearm Loop Heart Ribbon

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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 oven timer has not gone off yet and you are already piping. Mrs Okafor's order sits on the steel bench under a folded tea towel: three tiers for a christening in Bromley, with a ribbon of sugar loops along the base that must all be the same size or the whole cake looks lopsided. Your hand knows the shape before your head does. A long dip, a swoop back up, a loop that closes on itself like a sleeping eye. Flour hangs in the cone of the single strip light above the bench.

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Gerald, the night man, comes in stamping rain off his boots and squints at the hearts you have started piping on the parchment beside the loops. He asks who they are for. You tell him the mother wanted one for each child, and one more for the baby who didn't stay past the spring. You say it flatly, because at four in the morning flat is the only way it comes out. He doesn't answer. He cracks two eggs one-handed and slides the bowl toward you without being asked.

The first two hearts go in red, the colour the mother chose for the living ones. The third you pipe in blue, because she told you on the phone that her boy was the one who had always wanted to be told which one was his. You hold the bag steady, let the last dot set, and then you wait, which is the hardest part, because sugar hates a draught and the back door is open to the car park.

By the time the windows turn grey, the loops have set on the parchment in a row, and you slide a palette knife under the first one. It lifts cleanly and holds its shape in your palm. You carry the tray out to the cold van, and the sky over the car park has just started to thin to the colour of milk.