Two people's upper backs show black script tattoos, one reading "These words you should always remember..." and the other "...To you, my heart I surrender." with a small arrow beneath.

Matching quote tattoos on two upper backs

Lettering · Back · Black and grey · Photo

Two people are shown from behind, each with a line of black script lettering on the upper back and shoulder. The left tattoo reads "These words you should always remember..." in a flowing script, and the right reads "...To you, my heart I surrender." above a fine-lined arrow pointing left. The lettering is crisp and dark on light skin, with the photograph taken at a slight angle across both shoulders.

Lettering Back Shoulder Quote Text Arrow Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ada had the ovens lit by four and the first tins proving by half past, which left her an hour when nobody could ask her anything. Lou's note was waiting under the flour scoop, folded twice the way she folded things she didn't want read in front of the delivery lads. It held only the first half of a sentence, the bit about remembering, written on the back of a yeast invoice, and the pencil had dug so hard into the paper that the words stood up like raised print.

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Ada had always been the one who finished sentences. She tucked the pencil behind her ear, turned the invoice over to the mill's address in Skipton, and wrote the rest in a hand made worse by cold fingers from the walk-in. She drew a small arrow beneath it, pointing back toward the flour bin, and slid the card into the pocket of Lou's apron on the peg, where it would be found when the first van was loaded.

Lou came in at ten to six smelling of rain and of cigarettes she had sworn off in March. She read the card standing up by the proving cupboard, laughed the way she only laughed after crying in the van, and then frowned at the arrow. "That's pointing at the bin," she said. "It is," Ada said, and kept her eyes on the tray of cooling rolls.

Lou lifted the lid. Beneath the sack of strong white sat a bundle of old invoices tied with string, every one of them carrying a line in pencil from some winter they had got through together. She pulled out the top one, read it twice, and by the time the sky went grey over the chimneys the bread in the window was still warm and the bin lid was propped open with the flour scoop.