Black fine line script reading Wanderlust with two small stars on the upper thigh, with a patterned bikini and beach sand in the background.

Wanderlust script with stars on a thigh

Lettering · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A close crop of a person's upper thigh showing the word Wanderlust in a thin, slanted black script, with two small stars beside the final letters. The linework is clean and even with no visible shading, and the ink is solid black on pale skin. The background shows a patterned bikini bottom, sand and a pair of blue flip-flops.

Lettering Fine line Thigh Wanderlust Script Star Beach Bikini

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The shift whistle at Hollin Colliery has gone by the time Mrs Dunning lets you lock up the newsagent, and the wives are already queuing at the lamp room with their flasks. You are sixteen, and the atlas on the back counter has been open at Peru since Tuesday because you have read the coastline so often the page has gone soft. Nobody in Hollin has been further than Scarborough, and that was a coach trip where the rain never stopped.

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Your father comes up the lane at half six, grey to the eyebrows, and asks what's for tea. He does not notice the bus timetable folded in your apron pocket, or the tin on the shelf above the kettle with BISCUITS written on the lid in your mother's hand. Inside it there is eleven pounds and forty pence, earned from a year of Saturdays and the odd tip from men buying cigarettes on the slate. Coal dust gets into everything here, your mother says, and you learn to stop wiping it off.

The night before the bus you sit at the kitchen table and write one word on the back of the timetable in slanting ink, the letters leaning as if they are already running for the door. Beside the final letters you draw two small stars, the way Mrs Dunning draws them on the raffle tickets for the chapel. You fold the paper back into your pocket and lie awake listening to the pit wheel turn over, slow and patient, as if it has never once wanted to go anywhere.

At seven the bus pulls out past the pithead. You press your forehead to the glass, feel the tin's weight in your coat, and read the word one more time. By Carlisle the stars have worn soft from your thumb, and you are not looking back at the wheel at all.