Script lettering quote across the wrist
Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
Handwritten black script words run diagonally across the wrist and inner forearm, with the letters set in a flowing, slightly slanted hand. The linework is thin and even, with the ink sitting in clean, dark strokes against the skin. The photograph is taken from above on a tiled floor, with a pair of patterned shoes and a bare ankle visible in the lower corner.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The band at the Majestic had murdered the same foxtrot three times over when Ruth pressed a folded card into my palm and shut my fingers around it. "Don't you dare cry in that frock," she said. "Read it when the lights come up."
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I didn't need the lights. Mum's writing sloped as if the pencil was in a hurry to be somewhere else. She had copied the words from the calendar in the kitchen, the one from the chemist on Kirkgate that had hung there since Walter's letter came from Anzio, and nobody had had the heart to turn the page. Tomorrow holds much better day, it said, in her looping hand, on the back of a ration book slip.
Ruth steered me off the floor and past the cloakroom, where girls were powdering their noses in the spotted mirror. A sailor with a cropped head and a borrowed collar asked me to dance, and I said yes because my knees had gone soft. He trod on my foot twice and apologised both times. Somewhere in the second chorus I realised he was humming the tune Walter used to whistle through his teeth while he mended the wireless, and I had to look hard at the ceiling.
The lights came up at half eleven. I folded the card into my glove and walked home along the tram lines without a torch, counting the words on my fingers the way Mum counted stitches. Tomorrow. Holds. Much. Better. Day. It wasn't a promise, I told myself, only a sentence, and sentences could be turned round to face whichever way you needed. At the corner of our street the gas lamp hissed, and I stopped, and then I went in.
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