Small solid black heart tattoo on the side of a finger, just below the nail, in a close photo of a curled hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small solid heart tattoo on a finger

Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand with the fingers curled towards the camera. A small, solid black heart sits on the side of one finger, below the nail. The background is dark and the skin tones are warm, and the heart is the clear focal point.

Hand Heart

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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 wasps have given up on the windfalls by the time the ladders arrive, so you go out alone at six, before the dew burns off, and sort the Coxes from the bruised ones with your thumb. The orchard runs down to the river in rows nobody has straightened since Hollins Farm changed hands, and the trees lean the way old men lean on gates, as if they expect someone to come along and tell them what they're doing wrong.

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Every August Dilys drove up from Margate to take the first cut from the top rows, and every August she found a reason to walk the long row with you. She had a small black heart needled into the side of her middle finger, no bigger than a lentil, and she touched it when she was thinking, the way you might check a loose tooth. The heart leaned a little to the left, she said, as if it were listening for something. You told her it suited her. She told you that was the sort of thing people said about tattoos they didn't like.

The last year she came, the frost arrived early and the apples split on the branch. You spent three days picking what hadn't cracked, and on the fourth you found a little russet nobody had tended, with a dark mark at the stalk end in the exact crooked shape of hers. You turned it over in your palm for a long time. Then you carried it to the press house and set it on the windowsill, where the afternoon light comes through the cloudy glass.

You still pass that sill every morning. Nobody has eaten the apple, and nobody has asked why it's there, and the mark has gone soft and brown like a thumbprint pressed into dust. Each August you stop beside it on the way down to the river, and you touch the side of your own finger without quite meaning to.