Black ink MMVI Roman numeral lettering on the forearm of one person, held hands with another person who has a matching tattoo on the forearm.

Matching MMVI numerals on forearms

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two people hold hands, and each has the Roman numeral MMVI tattooed on the forearm near the wrist. The serif lettering is drawn in fine black linework with solid, even fill. The warm, close-cropped composition shows the two arms, a thin bracelet, and a patterned skirt and dress behind them.

Lettering Forearm Roman numeral Lettering Hand Bracelet Matching tattoo

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The booth at Calais smelled of instant coffee and the damp wool of a coat someone had dried on the radiator. The officer had our passports open on the counter and kept glancing from the photographs to the two of us, then down at the scrap of paper we had been handed the week before by a woman in a cardigan who said the letters would be fine, as long as nobody asked. Nobody usually does. He did.

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"Roman numerals," he said, tapping the ink on my wrist with the end of his pen. "Two thousand and six?" Dolores answered before I could, as she always does, with a shrug that somehow made the whole booth feel smaller. "It's the year we borrowed her uncle's van and drove it to Lisbon with the wrong maps," she said. "We got as far as Bordeaux before the clutch went. We had them done in Bristol the spring after, when we could afford the ink and neither of us had the nerve to back out."

The officer almost smiled. He stamped the passports, slid them back under the glass, and asked whether we had anything to declare. I thought of the van, the squashed sandwiches, the shoebox of postcards from places we never reached. Dolores said no, which was true, and then she said, "Only each other," which is not a thing you are supposed to say to a customs officer. He laughed out loud and waved us through.

Out in the car park the wind came off the Channel carrying diesel and salt. Dolores pushed her sleeve up to check the time on her phone, then held my hand with the same fingers that had once steered a van through three countries. "Still counting," she said, and we walked toward the ferry terminal with the numerals catching the light.