Black and white photo of a small fine line tattoo of three connected waves on the back, seen above a striped low-cut top, with long hair falling over one shoulder.

Three small waves on a upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

The photo shows the back of a person with long light hair draped over one shoulder, wearing a striped low-scooped tank top against a wooden fence. A small tattoo of three connected wave lines sits on the back, drawn in thin, fluid black linework with a smooth, even weight. The image is black and white, so the tattoo appears as solid dark ink with no colour.

Fine line Back Wave Line art

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Marguerite had timed the last northbound of the evening so the platform lamps would still be lit when she reached the bench at the seaward end. The tide was out, and the wet sand below the embankment held the sky in long grey strips. She had brought a flask of tea she had not yet poured, and a letter folded twice in her coat pocket, its envelope gone soft at the corners from being opened and shut.

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Ferris, the porter, came along the platform with his hi-vis catching the light and stopped to ask whether she was waiting for the 19:42. She said no. He nodded as if that were the most reasonable answer in the county and went back to his trolley of parcels. Three gulls stood on the canopy rail in a row, shifting their weight each time the wind came in off the water, and every few minutes one lifted off and settled a yard further along.

The letter was from her brother, who had written after eleven years of silence to say the sea wall at Porthlow had finally given way and taken the cottage with it. The council wanted the plot cleared by spring. At the bottom, under his name, he had added a line in pencil: bring the boat key if you still have it. She unfolded the page again and read it under the lamp, the way a person checks a timetable they already know by heart.

Below the rail, three long swells rolled in one after another and broke white against the stones, each one drawing back before the next arrived. Marguerite counted them, as she had counted them as a girl from the same bench. When the headlamp of the train swung around the headland, she poured the tea into the lid of the flask, drank it while it was still too hot, and stood up with the letter in her hand.