Black and grey photograph of a script lettering tattoo reading 'is it so wrong that you make me strong?' along the inner forearm, with a hand and bracelet visible.

Script quote tattoo on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows a forearm and wrist, with the hand angled to the right and a beaded bracelet and a ring visible. The tattoo is a line of cursive script in black ink, set in two rows that read 'is it so wrong that you make me strong?' across the forearm. The image is monochrome with dark shadowed edges, and the lettering is the clear focus of the composition.

Lettering Forearm Quote Text Script Bracelet

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had been coming sideways off the bay since Tuesday, and by Friday the back bedroom at Gull Cottage smelt of wet wool and lavender water. Ada Penhallow stood on the landing with a tray of cold toast and listened to Mr Lusk arguing with the wardrobe again. He had been trying to shift it under the window for an hour so he could see the sea. He was seventy-four, had one good hip, and would not be told.

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Her Frank had been a shouter too. Thirty-one years of him calling her slow, soft, a fool for buying the blue dish, and she had kept a notebook in the hall table drawer where she wrote down the things he said so she could read them back when the house was quiet. Most of it was rubbish. One line she copied out three times in her neatest hand, because it made her laugh and then made her cross: is it so wrong that you make me strong? He had meant it as a jibe. Some nights she was not sure whose side of the joke she was on.

She set the tray down and went in. Between them they walked the wardrobe a foot, then another, until the sash stood clear and the grey water showed beyond the groyne. Lusk leaned on the frame, breathing like a bellows. 'Go on,' he said. 'Say it. I'm a stubborn old goat.' She didn't. She took the notebook from her apron pocket and held it out, open at the page.

He read it, grunted, and handed it back. 'Your Frank had a point,' he said. 'Shame he never knew which way it pointed.' Ada tore the page out, folded it into a fan, and tucked it behind the clock on the landing where the rent book lived. Downstairs the kettle began to sing, and for once she did not hurry down to it.