Black script lettering and a lotus flower tattoo on the lower back, just above the waistband of grey and white Calvin Klein underwear.

Script and lotus tattoo on the lower back

Lettering · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A close view of a person lying on a bed in grey leggings and a white top, with a tattoo visible on the lower back above the waistband. The tattoo combines several lines of black handwritten script with a lotus flower drawn in black linework. The image is in black and grey tones, apart from the white bedding and clothing, and the tattoo sits in the lower part of the frame.

Lettering Botanical Back Script Lotus Flower Handwriting

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The reed pen had split again, so Nebet dipped the sharpened stub in the ink cake and wrote with the shaft held low, the way her father had taught her when the light in the storeroom went thin. Outside the window the lotus pond in the courtyard had folded its petals for the afternoon, closing them like hands in a lap. She was writing to Senu, who had gone north with the grain boats and had not sent word since the flood. Every line she made was a question he would answer in six months, if the river allowed.

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She wrote that the mother-of-pearl dish was cracked but still held water. She wrote that the neighbour's goat had eaten the gourd vines. She wrote that the pond had opened early this spring, eleven blooms, and that she had counted them each morning before the scribes arrived, the way he used to count fish. Then she wrote the line she had rehearsed all week: come back before the lotus closes for the last time. It was a foolish sentence. The lotus closed every evening and opened every morning, and she knew that, and she wrote it anyway.

The boat would leave at dusk. Nebet rolled the papyrus, bound it with flax, and pressed the clay seal with her thumb so the impression held the shape of her knuckle. At the quay a barefoot boy took the bundle and ran, and she watched him until the crowd swallowed him.

Walking home she passed the pond. One bloom had stayed open past the hour it should have folded, pale and stubborn in the dusk, and she stood at the edge until the water went dark around it. Then she bent down and cupped the surface, and in the bowl of her hands she could still feel the cool of the petals, which was as close to an answer as she was going to get.