Black and grey photo of two crossed feet, each with a small fine line symbol tattoo on the ankle.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small matching symbols on two ankles

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

Two bare feet are crossed over each other on a textured fabric surface. Each ankle carries a small black tattoo of an abstract symbol made of simple, thin strokes. The black and white photograph is framed close, with the tattoos sitting near the centre of each image area.

Fine line Ankle Symbol Glyph Feet

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You find her by the coat rack in the function room of the Golden Lion, where someone has strung paper bunting that is already curling at the corners. Thirty years of class photographs are pinned along the wall, and you recognise her before her face, by the way she holds her glass between two fingers, like a pen. Neither of you says the old names. Instead she asks whether you still have the notebook.

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The notebook was a cheap Silvine with a broken elbow clasp, and the two of you wrote in it through the whole of Year Nine, in a script you invented on the back row of Mr Haddow's geography lessons. Every letter was a stroke with a hook on the end, and every word had to be drawn rather than spelt. Nobody else could read it. You passed it under the desks with your feet, so the teachers would never see your hands.

'Ask me one,' she says. You take a biro from your bag, the cheap kind that always skips, and draw on a beer mat the glyph that meant meet me at the bus shelter. She reads it without pausing, and her mouth does the thing it did at fourteen, a half-smile pushed to one side. She draws one back. It says something you had forgotten, and underneath it a word you had not.

You turn the mat over to read the word properly. It is the name of the shelter on Calder Road, the one the council knocked down the spring you left, and for a moment you are both sixteen and waiting in the rain with a notebook between you. You slide the mat back across the table. She pockets it without a word, the way she always pocketed the notes, and goes to find the others.