Black and grey fine line script tattoo reading passion across the inside of a wrist.

Passion script on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single word, passion, is written in black cursive script across the inner wrist, with a long horizontal stroke trailing out from the first letter and a looping tail under the final letter. The linework is fine and even, with solid black ink and no shading. The photograph is black and white, with soft light and a plain background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Right, sit down, the lot of you, and you'll hear how the Marigold Ballroom lost its sensible shoes to a girl with a pencil. Nineteen fifty-three, it was, the spring the boiler gave up. Dolores Quaile came in off the Holyhead train with one case and a tin of Indian ink, and she asked Mr Fenwick for a single Thursday night to pin up a notice. Nobody asked what it said. It said PASSION in looping copperplate, the tail curled under the last letter like a hooked lead, and a long line running out from the first letter like a bow drawn back.

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The dancers read it and argued. Walter Dunmore, who had two left feet and a wife in Rhyl, swore it was a dare. Mrs Ottoline Pike said it was a swindle and went home. But by the Saturday the floor was crowded with people who had never once touched in public, and Dolores stood by the bandstand with her hands folded, saying nothing at all. She wasn't selling lessons. She only wanted them to notice that the word had a stroke that ran on past its own ending, the way a tune does when the band forgets to stop.

So the Marigold kept its floor going for eighteen years, through the Coronation and the Beatles and two new managers. Then the council came with their clipboards in 1971 and tore the hall down brick by brick. Dolores had been dead a decade by then. Her notice had been painted over twice, and the paint came off the back wall in sheets.

But if you come here on a dark night and stand where the bar used to be, you can still see that one long pencil line running across the plaster, faint as a vein, going out past the place where the letters stopped.