Black lettering tattoo on the side of the body reading Wanderlust, a strong desire or impulse to travel and explore the world, with a thin line and small airplane outline.

Wanderlust definition with airplane on side

Lettering · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows the word Wanderlust in a cursive script above a smaller printed definition, a strong desire or impulse to travel and explore the world. A thin single line curves beneath the script and leads to a small airplane silhouette on the right. The piece is rendered in solid black ink on pale skin, with a dark fabric garment above it and the photo framed tightly on the lower torso.

Lettering Ribs Wanderlust Airplane Quote Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The dictionary was still open on the galley table when Mags came in from the lock, rope burns on both palms and her hair full of drizzle. She'd been reading the same line for an hour. I could tell from the way the page lay, creased flat under the teapot. Wanderlust, it said. A strong desire or impulse to travel and explore the world. She had copied the word onto the back of a Heathrow timetable and stuck it to the fridge, which was how I knew she was going.

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The Patience has been moored at Brentford for nineteen years, and in that time I have watched a great many birds cross the sky above the reeds. Mags used to count them with me from the cabin roof, one finger each, until she got bored. Now she only looked up when the planes came low over the water towards the airport, and she looked for a long time, the way you look at a door someone has just walked through.

I did not stop her. I told her about the summer I was nineteen, when I had a ticket to Naples folded in my cap and got as far as Reading before a bargee's wife pressed a pork pie into my hands and asked me to mind the tiller for an afternoon. I never did get to Naples. I got a barge, a wife, and a daughter who took the first flight she could afford the week she turned eighteen. Mags listened with her chin on her fists and said nothing clever, which was how I knew she had heard.

On Sunday I drove her out to the terminal with her rucksack wedged between my knees. At the kerb she kissed my cheek, quick and cold, and then she was gone through the glass doors. I drove back along the river with the window down. Above Syon Park a single jet drew a white line across the blue, thin as a pencil stroke, and I kept my eyes on it until it bent out of sight over the water, pointing the way she had gone.