Small black script tattoo reading oops on the side of a finger, shown in a fine line lettering style on a hand with red painted nails.

Oops script tattoo on a finger

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a small black tattoo of the word oops in cursive script, with a full stop after it, sitting on the side of a finger near the knuckle. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink is solid black against the skin. The hand fills the left and centre of the frame, with a blurred desk and a black electronic device in the background.

Lettering Fine line Hand Script Word Finger

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The register is still warm from the vicar's hand when the best man pats his pockets and finds nothing but a bus ticket. You watch the colour leave his face from the third pew, where you have been left in charge of the flower girl. Someone has to fetch the rings from the car, and it is you, because you are the only one who has not yet had a glass of the warm prosecco.

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The car is a Vauxhall parked askew on the gravel, its boot heaped with tulle. Under the rubber mat, wedged against the spare tyre, the velvet box sits exactly where the groom's mother said it would be, which is somewhere she would never think to look. You kneel on the stones in your good shoes and lift it out. Inside, two plain bands, and the satin lining has a faint crease where they have been rattling about since Thursday. You snap the lid shut, look at the church door, and say the word out loud to nobody at all.

Back inside you hand the box over with the calm of someone who has never once been late for anything. The best man opens it, and his face does exactly what yours did in the car park. The vicar clears his throat. The bride, who has been braced for disaster since breakfast, starts laughing before anyone else does, and the whole nave follows her, pews creaking, until the flower girl is clapping along without knowing why.

Later, when the speeches run long and the marquee smells of cut grass, the best man stands up with a napkin in one hand and a fork in the other. He looks straight at you across the room. You raise your glass, very slowly, and let him take a full minute to find his place in his notes.