Fine line black lettering reading WHATEVER runs up the inner forearm, with a clenched hand and a silver ring above it against a white wall.

WHATEVER lettering on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a raised, clenched hand with a small black word, WHATEVER, in thin capital letters running vertically up the inner forearm. The lettering is crisp, evenly spaced and rendered in a single dark ink with no shading. The plain white background and soft, even light keep the focus on the tattoo, with pale pink nail polish and a silver ring on one finger.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Word Fist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Maureen had run the lost property hatch at Hessle Road for twenty-two years, and she had learned that what people refused to describe told you more than what they handed over. The man at the counter had left a grey umbrella on the 14.12 to Brough and wanted it back without saying its colour, its length or where he had been sitting. "Describe it, love," she said, pen lifted. "Whatever," he said, and tapped the counter twice with one knuckle, as if that settled the matter.

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She wrote WHATEVER in the box in her round capitals, because the form would not print without something in it, and because by the second decade she had stopped arguing with people about their paperwork. The umbrella sat behind her on the shelf, one rib bent, a luggage tag still looped over the handle. The tag said, in a child's pencil, PLEASE RETURN TO NAN, NOT TO DAD. Maureen had kept worse secrets for less money.

He came back the following Thursday, and the Thursday after that, each time asking for nothing and standing a little longer at the window where the rain ran sideways across the platform. On the third visit he said the umbrella had been his mother's, that she had said whatever about everything right up to the end, and that he had only just found the tag tucked inside the lining of his coat.

Maureen slid the form back across the counter with the box still reading WHATEVER. "Then you'd best tell me the colour," she said gently. He looked at the umbrella for a long time before he answered. "Grey," he said, and for the first time all month he sounded as though he minded.