Black script lettering tattoo across the upper back of a woman with long wavy hair, wearing a black lace top and grey beanie.

Script tattoo across upper back

Lettering · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A rear view of a woman with long, wavy hair and a grey knit beanie, showing a thin black cursive script tattoo across the upper back between the shoulder blades. The lettering is fine-lined and crisp, with the words partly hidden by hair and the top's zipped lace panel. The palette is black ink on skin against a soft, sunlit urban backdrop, with the image focused on the tattoo and the wearer's back.

Lettering Back Script Lettering Upper back Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The letter came back to Ada Pryce the week the ice went out of the cut, its corner swollen and a thumbprint of tar on the seal. Tom had never been any good at addresses. She turned it over on the lock-keeper's step and read her own hand on the front, the careful loops she had practised at the dame school, and felt a fool for thinking he might have opened it.

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She had written in January, with the stove smoking and the Maud Ellen tied off below the weir. Dear Tom, the swans have come back to the basin and Father calls them the Corporation. Mrs Dunning says the rent is due Friday. Come home before the fair or don't come at all, only write. She had crossed out the last line, put it back in, and blotted it with her sleeve.

Inside, folded twice, was her own letter with nothing added to it. Only on the back, in pencil pressed so hard the lead had gone through, he had written one line: Still on the Mersey, ask the boy at Runcorn for the Hester. Ada went down to the towpath before she could talk herself out of it. Eli was sitting on the balance beam with his boots in the water, and he looked up as if he had been waiting all winter for someone to ask him something.

He pointed past the weir. A black hull was coming up slow through the fog, a woman's name in white along the bow, and at the stern, where the lantern hung, a small bird was cut into the wood with its wings half open, the way Tom had carved it the summer he turned twelve. Ada lifted her hand to shade her eyes, and the barge came on through the mist, steady as a word she had not yet finished writing.