Three pairs of bare feet pressed together, each with a small black fine line infinity symbol tattooed on the ankle.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small infinity symbol tattoos on three ankles

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

Three bare feet and ankles are gathered together on a brown textured carpet. Each ankle carries a small, thin black infinity symbol drawn in fine line work with solid, even ink. The soft natural light and close framing keep the small tattoos as the clear focus against the warm skin tones.

Fine line Ankle Infinity symbol Feet Ankle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The landlady at Gull Rock House kept a ledger in which every guest's name was written twice, once on arrival and once, in a smaller hand, when they left. She let me see the page for our room only once, the week we came, and I remember the empty column beside our names. My aunt had booked the back room for August, the three of us, with a window onto the slipway and the bins. Nobody in Hastings asked why three women wanted a room for a fortnight when there were only two beds. We said we were sisters, which was mostly true.

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Every morning Dora walked the sands to the groyne and back, counting her steps under her breath, and every morning she came in with wet hems and said the sea had turned round on itself again. Ruth bought a stub of pencil from the chemist and drew a figure of eight on the back of a chip paper. Lying down, she said, it was the sign for forever, because the line never lifts. We laughed at her, then we copied it onto each other's ankles with the blue biro from the hall desk, which was never meant for skin. It faded in a week, mostly. Dora kept hers longer than she admitted.

On the last night the tide came in so high it lapped the bottom step of the boarding house, and the landlady stood in the hall in her dressing gown, holding the ledger against her chest. Ruth asked her, quite politely, whether the page could be read to us. The landlady opened it and showed us the second entries, all of them in that small hand. Ours was blank. She tapped the empty column and said that the sea could be trusted to fill it in, and that people who came back in winter always had their names written twice.

In the morning I took the pen from the hall desk and wrote the figure of eight beside our names. It looked, in that cramped space, like something that could go round for ever.