Black fine line script reading side by side across the ribs, partly covered by a grey knitted jumper, with a small dot to the right.

Script phrase along the ribs

Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A close crop of a torso showing a black cursive script phrase across the lower ribs, reading side by side with a small dot after it. The linework is thin and even, with a light, slightly soft edge. The ink is black on warm skin, and the grey jumper and pale denim sit at the edges of a plain, pale background.

Fine line Lettering Ribs Script Phrase Dot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain came sideways across Saltergate market the morning Maud Harrow, who sold eels, and Ida Quill, who sold thread, quarrelled over the one pole that held up their awnings. Neither would move her stall. So they stood in the wet between their trestles and argued until the eels went slack and the thread turned grey at the edges.

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The old folk of that town said the river had made them. Maud's father had dredged the weir and Ida's mother had sewn the sails for the barges, and the two families had never once sat at the same table. Still, when the wind tore the awning loose and dropped it over both counters, they had to lift it together, heaving with their shoulders pressed hard, and neither let go until it was pinned again.

All afternoon they worked that way, side by side under the sagging cloth, Maud reaching for her scales while Ida reached for her spools, their elbows knocking, their hems soaking through. Nobody bought much. A carter stopped, looked at the two of them under one tarpaulin, laughed until he coughed, and then bought a hank of red wool and a pound of eels and went off whistling.

When the bell rang for closing, Maud wrapped her last eel in newspaper and Ida knotted her last thread. They walked the same road home for the first time in forty years, close enough that their sleeves touched, rain running off both their noses. At the bridge Ida said, "Same time tomorrow?" Maud said nothing. She only pressed a small wet stone into Ida's palm, the sort the river rolls smooth, and walked on. Ida turned it over. On its face someone had scratched a single dot.