Small black fine-line script tattoo reading "i do" across the side of a finger on a hand with red nail polish.

Small script "i do" on a finger

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand with a small black script tattoo reading "i do" running across the side of one finger. The linework is thin and slightly uneven, with the letters following the curve of the finger joint. The background is a leopard-print fabric, and the red nail polish provides the main colour contrast.

Lettering Fine line Hand Script Finger

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dora had grafted the Ashmead's Kernel onto its rootstock every August for thirty-one years, and every August her husband Len stood at the end of the row pretending he wasn't watching. This year the knife slipped on the second cut. She swore under her breath, and Len laughed so hard he had to sit down on an upturned crate in the wet grass.

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"Forty years," he said, wiping his eyes. "And you still can't keep a blade steady for a man who asks nothing."

She didn't answer. She was thinking of the county fair in 1961, the cider tent, the fiddler who wanted two shillings for a waltz, and how Len had paid it without asking which dance she'd like. Some things you didn't explain. You said yes and stayed.

The wasps were drunk on windfalls. Dora bound the graft with waxed raffia, pressed the tape flat with her thumb, and looked up. Len had found the lost spade in the hedge and was holding it like a bridal bouquet, grinning. The old pear tree behind him had dropped its last fruit onto the path, and the path was bruised with sugar.

"Well?" he said.

She pulled the knife from her apron and scratched two words into the bark of the rootstock, the letters bending where the wood curved, small and crooked and sure. Len leaned in to read them. For once in forty years he had nothing to say at all.