Black and white photo of a thin, handwritten quote in black lettering along a forearm, with shaded grey tattooing on the upper arm.

Quote lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a forearm with a line of thin, handwritten lettering that appears to read as a single phrase along the arm. Shaded grey tattooing is visible on the upper arm at the edge of the frame. The background is out of focus and the lighting is soft.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Upper arm Quote Script Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dorota had the first trays out before the street lamps on Hallam Row had gone off, and by the time the oven door swung open with its familiar sigh, the flour on her wrists had settled into the fine creases of her knuckles. She liked this hour best. Nobody asked her anything. The shutters were still down, the milk float had not yet rattled past, and the bread told her what it needed without any words at all.

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Her brother Tomasz rang at four, as he did every Sunday, to ask whether she had sold the caraway loaves. She said she had not, because they were still proving in the cold back room, and he said that was the trouble with her, always waiting for the dough to decide. She laughed and held the phone against her shoulder while she scored a row of sourdough with a razor, the cuts opening like small mouths.

Afterwards she sat on an upturned crate with a cup of tea gone lukewarm and thought about the letter he had sent in March, the one she had not answered. Its last line had said that everything that happens is from now on, Dorota, so you may as well eat well in the meantime. She had folded it into the drawer under the till and forgotten it, until now.

At half past five the first customer tapped on the glass, a man in a hi-vis jacket, and she slid the window up. He asked for a bloomer. She wrapped it in brown paper and told him it was still warm, which it was, and he said, "Good. Everything's warm this early." She watched him walk off down the wet pavement, and for once she did not reach back to see whether the past had been better. She reached for the tray of rolls instead.