Two open palms show small black lettering tattoos on the wrists, one reading Better Halves and the other Best Friends, with wedding rings on both hands.

Matching lettering tattoos on two wrists

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two open hands face the camera, each wrist carrying a small black script line of lettering, one reading Better Halves and the other Best Friends. The lettering is crisp, solid black ink with clean edges, and the skin tones are soft and natural. The shallow focus blurs the warm, dark background, keeping attention on the hands, the wrist tattoos and the rings on the fingers.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, the lot of you. The urn's only just boiled and Mrs Pardoe has put out the custard creams, which means she has a grievance and wants an audience. Before she starts, you'll want the story of Ivy Marsh and Nell Tarrant, because I was told it in this very hall the year the roof leaked on the Christmas play. They were eleven. They sat on the back wall of Ashby Road Primary sharing a Sherbet Dip, and when it split down the middle Ivy said that made them better halves, and Nell said that made her the best friend, so they inked the words on each other's wrists with a darning needle and a biro refill. The ink went blue, then spread into little bruises, and both their mothers were furious for a week.

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Nell's father took a job in Carlisle the summer after. The letters became postcards, and then nothing. Ivy grew up and married a man who fixed boilers and wore his watch on the inside of his wrist. Nell trained as a nurse, went off to Canada, came back to look after her mother in the bungalow on Crossways. Each of them told people the business had been childish nonsense, and each of them kept the lines, which is the one thing about a tattoo that really keeps.

Last spring the parish fête ran short of trestle tables, and the two of them ended up at the same end of one, reaching for the same urn. Ivy saw the faded smudge on Nell's wrist first, and Nell saw the old word on Ivy's, and neither said a thing for almost a minute. Then Ivy held out her open hand, palm up, the way you'd offer a biscuit to a horse, and Nell laid hers on top. The two wrists lined up like the halves of that Sherbet Dip, the rings they'd each put on since then clicked together, and somebody dropped a tray of scones.

The scones were a write-off. Mrs Pardoe has never forgiven either of them, and that, I'm afraid, is her grievance.

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