Close view of a black geometric tattoo of stacked triangles on the inner forearm near the wrist, beside several woven bracelets and a gold feather charm.

Stacked triangle tattoo on a wrist

Geometric · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black geometric tattoo of stacked, interlocking triangles sits on the inner forearm near the wrist. The lines are solid and even, with no shading, and the ink is dark black. The wrist is worn with woven bracelets in teal, mint, pink and a gold feather charm, set against a hexagonal tiled floor.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third time Mrs Okonedo asked me to shift the triangles, I had already cut eleven hexagons into halves and wiped the grey dust off my knees twice. She wanted the stacked shapes on the back wall of the lido to lock into the floor without a seam. I told her hexagons do not give up triangles without a fight, and that the tiles had been laid in 1961 by a man who was dead before I was born. She said my patience was younger than the tiles, and that I should be grateful for the work.

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I measured everything with a steel rule and a pencil I sharpened on the stairs. Each triangle had to nest against its neighbour so that the black lines ran unbroken, like a rope pulled tight through three pulleys. Mrs Okonedo stood at the rail with a flask of tea and told me, every hour, that the lines were the wrong weight. They were not. The lines were exactly the weight she had drawn on the back of an envelope, and I told her so, and she told me I was too stubborn to be useful.

On the last afternoon the tide came in early and the sea slid under the gate. I was on my knees with the final piece, a triangle I had cut from a hexagon with the wet saw, and I realised the only gap left was the one I had been told to close. I left it open. Mrs Okonedo came down the steps, looked at the empty groove, and said nothing for a long time. Then she pressed her thumb into the grout, smoothing it, and the water found its way out through the line I had left for it.

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