Small black fine line outline of a heart on the inner wrist, next to a gold cuff bracelet and a mug of coffee.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small heart outline on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a woman's arm and wrist resting on a white bedsheet beside an open book and pink carnations. A small heart outline in thin black linework sits on the inner wrist, with the rest of the image showing a gold cuff bracelet, a hand holding a white mug of coffee, and soft natural light. The composition keeps the tattoo as a clear focal point in the lower centre of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The carnations went on the tray at seven, and by ten the Saturday crowd had bought every one except the pink ones, which nobody wanted because they looked like boiled sweets. I kept two back for Mr Hollis. He came up the stairs of the Majestic every week in a suit gone shiny at the elbows, paid a shilling for a carnation, and never once asked me to dance.

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That March, the band struck up a slow waltz and he finally crossed the floor with a flower in his buttonhole and a pencil stub in his fingers. "Put your name on my card, Edie," he said, so I did, and he wrote a little heart in the margin beside it, no bigger than a sixpence, then blew on the lead so it wouldn't smudge. He said his hip was bad, that he'd been sitting out for eleven years waiting for the nerve, and that the heart was the only line he trusted himself to write.

We didn't dance that night. We stood by the cloakroom hatch while the coats went round, and he told me about the cutting room he ran in Stockton and the wife who had left him for a commercial traveller. I told him about the tray and the pink carnations. When the lights came up he gave me the pencil to keep.

I still have the card. Forty years of damp handbags have worn the heart down to a grey ghost, and on the bus home I trace it with my thumb, the way you'd touch a bruise to be sure it's there.

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