Black fine-line script tattoo reading Imperfection is beauty running along a pale forearm, photographed in black and white.

Script quote reading Imperfection is beauty

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A fine-line script quote runs diagonally across a pale limb, with the words Imperfection is beauty written in single-stroke black lettering. The final word runs off the right edge of the frame, so only part of it is visible. The photograph is black and white, with soft lighting and a plain, slightly out-of-focus background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Quote Script Word Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The clock above platform two had a minute hand bent at the elbow, so it sat a hair short of every hour and never agreed with the timetable. Ivy Bartle, who sold tea from the trolley, called it a disgrace. Stationmaster Pell wrote to the company three times, and each reply said a new movement cost more than the branch line earned in a year. So the clock stayed as it was, the trains kept their own time, and everyone learned to add a little to what they saw.

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One February the snow shut the line to Carrow, and a glazier's boy called Tom Hobday was left stranded under that clock with a tin of sandwiches and a canvas bag of glass offcuts. Nell Okafor, the night porter, found him there at dusk. "You'll want to fix that hand," he said, nodding up at it. "Anyone could," she said. "Nobody's asked me to, and I've not asked myself."

Tom had his pliers out of the bag before she could stop him, and he had the hand nearly straight when she took hold of his wrist. "Look at the platform," she said. Passengers were standing where they always stood, glancing up, then down at their own wrists, then up again, nudging each other the way people do when a thing has always been slightly wrong and they have come to rely on it. A man in a wet overcoat laughed and said the clock was the only honest thing on the whole line. Tom put the pliers away.

The 4:12 came through at 4:14 with snow on its roof, and Nell wrote the delay in her book in pencil, the way she always did, beneath the crack in the glass that ran from the four down to the seven. Tom sent a postcard the next spring. It showed a clock he had never seen, and on the back he had written, "Still a bit off, I hope."