A woman lies on white bedding with her face hidden by her arm, showing a small black lettering tattoo that reads love on her forearm.

Small script word tattoo on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A woman lies face down on white bedding, with her face hidden by her arm and blonde hair. A small black script tattoo reading love sits on the upper forearm, with fine, simple strokes. The image is mostly warm skin tones and white linen, with black lace underwear and a ring visible, and window blinds light the background.

Lettering Forearm Love Script Ring Blonde hair

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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

The rain came sideways under the canopy at the Corn Exchange market, and I had the trestle table covered in enamel house numbers and a tin of gold leaf I was too scared to open. Saturday mornings I letter names for people who want them on gates and mugs, and most of the time the work is simple. The young man who stopped in front of me that morning had a damp five-pound note folded small in his palm and didn't want a name.

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"Just a word," he said. "Small. The one my nan wrote on the back of her shopping lists." I asked him which word, though I already knew it from the way he kept opening his hand. He said it was four letters and that she made the loop of the first one like a bird landing on a wire. He couldn't draw it. He could only describe what it did.

I painted it on a strip of enamel with a number two brush while the rain drummed the awning above us. He watched each stroke the way people watch a kettle, as if looking hard enough might keep it from going wrong. When I got to the loop I slowed down, and for once I didn't rush the bird onto the wire. He paid, left the strip on the table to dry, and walked off into the crowd without looking back.

By four o'clock the rain had got into everything on that stall, the ledgers, the price cards, my hair, and the gold leaf had gone grey at the edges. The word was still crisp. A woman with a pushchair stopped, read it aloud under her breath, and asked if it was for sale. I told her it was already spoken for, and I put it face down in the box where I keep the things that aren't going anywhere.