Three photos in one collage showing a small fine line smiley face on the inner wrist, two tiny black triangles on forearms, and a world map outline on a person's upper back.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small tattoos on wrist, forearm and upper back

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The collage has three photographs. On the left, a small black smiley face sits on the inner wrist beside a silver engraved ring, and on the top right two tiny solid black triangles appear on the forearms. On the bottom right, a fine outline world map is set on the upper back of a person wearing a dark floral top, and all the tattoos are shown in black or dark grey ink against plain light backgrounds.

Fine line Forearm Back Smiley face Triangle World map Ring

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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 hall still smells of floor polish and the same orange squash, and Mr Pryce is hovering by the urn in a lanyard that says HELLO, MY NAME IS in capitals faded to grey. You take a cup you don't want and look for someone you recognise, which turns out to be everyone and nobody.

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Then Janet Okafor is standing beside you with a silver ring on her middle finger, its surface etched with tiny interlocking patterns, and she says your name the way she used to in Geography, as if it were a question she already knew the answer to. Back then the two of you passed notes folded into tight triangles across the desks, each one finished with a smiley face you both swore was ironic. Mr Pryce drew the world on the blackboard in chalk every Tuesday, and you copied it onto the inside cover of your exercise book, Antarctica included, because nobody else would.

'You never went anywhere,' she says, not unkindly. 'Did you?'

You tell her about the job, the flat, the sensible car. She nods as though you've described a place she has already crossed off the map. Then she turns her wrist towards you, and there is the little smile, and you both laugh far too loudly for a reunion.

Driving home, you find the exercise book in the boot under a bag of old coursework. The chalk world is still there in biro, and beside Lisbon someone, you, has written in tiny capitals: NOT YET. Tucked into the back cover is a triangle of paper, unfolded flat, with one last note inside. It says: meet me at the edge of the map. You read it twice before the traffic lights change.