Two matching fine line script tattoos of a cursive word sit on the inner wrists of two people whose hands are clasped together.

Matching script word tattoos on wrists

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Two people hold each other's wrists together, each with a small black cursive word tattooed on the inner wrist, and the two words appear to match. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink is solid black against light skin. The composition is a close crop on the wrists and hands, with a wooden floor and a pair of sandals visible in the background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word Matching tattoo Hand Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain came sideways into the Saturday market at half past nine, and by ten the cardboard under my stall had gone soft as bread. I was counting coins out of the biscuit tin when my cousin Nell pushed through the gap between the cheese van and the bric-a-brac, holding two paper cups of tea like a peace offering. She didn't say sorry. She set one cup down by my elbow and tugged my sleeve until my wrist came out into the grey light.

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"Ohana," she said, and tapped the inside of my wrist, where we had both gone to the little place above the bakery to get the word done in the same thin black script. Our gran had taught us it at her kitchen table in Sheffield: a Hawaiian word she had picked up from a sailor who never came back. Family, and the rule that nobody gets left on the pier. We were nineteen when we sat under the needle. I had thought it was soppy. Nell had thought it was clever. Neither of us had imagined we would be standing in the wet arguing about a van.

"I'm not selling the van," I said. "I'm selling the stall, and you're keeping the van." Nell said she had a job in Leeds starting Monday, a proper one with a pension, and that she had already told the landlord, and that I could be furious about it later once the tea had gone cold.

She held her wrist against mine, the two words lining up like a stitch that had finally been pulled tight. Rain drummed on the canopy above us and ran off its edge in a silver line. "Then we'd best fold the stall," I said, and neither of us moved to do it.