Small black fine line tattoo of three short vertical lines on the inner wrist, with gold rings and a knotted gold bangle.

Three short lines on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A hand is raised against a plain white background, wearing several thin gold rings and a knotted gold bangle on the wrist. Three short, evenly spaced black vertical lines sit on the inner wrist and forearm, drawn with fine, crisp linework and solid black ink. The image is bright and minimal, with the tattoo small and centred on the wrist.

Fine line Forearm Hand Wrist Ring Bangle

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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

You are up before the bells at St Anne's, the dough already slack and cool under your palms in the dark of the back room. The oven has been lit since half three, and the tin on the shelf above the proving cupboard still holds the pencil stub your mother kept there. You don't need the lamp. You know the bench by feel: the dip where flour collects, the nick near the edge where Dad's cleaver went wide in 1987 and never got sanded out.

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Three batches go in before the window turns from black to slate. Each time a loaf comes out, you take the pencil and make one short stroke on the chalkboard by the door, straight down, the way your mother marked the starters she kept alive through the winter of '63. Nobody asks what the marks are for. Kenny from the flour merchant, who whistles through his teeth, once squinted at them and asked if you were tallying customers. You told him you were tallying mornings the oven didn't fail, and he laughed so hard he nearly dropped a sack.

By the time the third stroke dries, the street outside has started to move. A milk float rattles past, and a gull lands on the bin lid, thinks better of it, and leaves. You wipe the board with the heel of your hand but leave the first mark standing, because that one got you out of bed when the shop had been shut a year and the ovens were cold. The other two are only paperwork.

At six the shutter goes up with its usual groan. The first customer is Mrs Okafor in her green coat, who always asks for the crust end and never pays in coins. You pass the loaf across the counter, still too warm to hold for long, and she tells you it's the best thing she'll eat all day. You tell her it's only Thursday. She laughs and takes it anyway.