Two colour tattoos of avocado halves, one on each person's upper arm, with the two people holding hands.

Matching avocado halves on upper arms

Upper arm · Colour · Photo

Two people hold hands, with a colour tattoo of a halved avocado on the upper arm of each. Each avocado has a pale yellow flesh, a green skin with darker edging, and a shaded brown pit. The soft lighting and plain pale background keep the focus on the tattoos.

Upper arm Fruit Hand

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody had bought an avocado from the Thursday stall in eleven years, so when the last one in the crate went soft on a wet Tuesday, Dennis Parry said he would eat it for his tea, and Ruth Cadell said he would do no such thing. They had shared the trestle table since their husbands died within a month of each other, and they had a rule about leftover fruit: it went to whoever argued longest, which was usually Ruth.

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They argued through the lunch rush, through a row about who had left the scales unplugged, and through the drizzle that drained the awning's colour to grey. By half three the avocado sat on an upturned crate between them like a ballot box. Dennis gave up first, which he always claimed was strategy. He took the knife from under the cash tin, cut the fruit clean along its seam, and twisted the two halves apart with a small wet sound.

Ruth looked at the pit, glossy and brown in its hollow, and said it looked like a bruise that had decided to be useful. Dennis said it looked like a conker. Neither of them would eat it. Instead she rolled up her sleeve to show him the picture she'd had done in Hastings the summer after Harold went, a green half with its stone sitting snug inside. He rolled up his to match, because he had never in his life let a dare go unanswered.

They finished the afternoon with a spoon each, a fresh box of pears, and a plan to root the stone in a jam jar on Ruth's windowsill. It did not root. It sent up a crooked pale shoot by March, and neither of them would be the one to throw it out.