Small black fine line dragonfly tattoo on the inner wrist of a hand with dark red painted nails, against a dark background.

Small dragonfly tattoo on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black dragonfly with outstretched wings sits on the inner wrist of a raised hand. The wings are shaded with fine dotted and hatched detail, while the body and legs are drawn in clean, thin black lines. The hand with dark red nails fills the upper frame against a dim, dark background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had found the gap in the awning by the time you reached Holloway Street market, and it ran in a thin silver line onto the paperweights at Mrs Pryce's stall. She didn't bother moving her tarpaulin. She just tilted the trestle so the water slid off the far edge and said you were late, same as every Saturday since March.

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Her stock was the usual drawer of tangled chains, brass keys nobody could match, and a shoebox of glass eyes. Between a tin of buttons and a tea caddy sat a paperweight the size of a plum. Inside, a dragonfly hung with its wings spread wide, every vein picked out in dull black. "Two years as a nymph under the water," she said, turning it so the lamp caught the glass. "Then a few weeks in the sun. Most people think that's a waste. I think it's the sensible way round." You asked her price. She said you could pay with the cost of a pot of tea and tell her what you meant to do with the rest of the summer.

You didn't have an answer, so you told her about the canal you'd been walking every evening, how the reeds ticked when the wind came off the water. She nodded as if that counted for something. Then she wrapped the paperweight in yesterday's newspaper, and when the bag began to go damp in your hand she held the corner of her tarpaulin over you both.

Back at the flat you set it on the windowsill. Rain streaked the glass, and the dragonfly, stilled in its clear dome, seemed to tremble with every drop, as if it had only just remembered the air.

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