Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
World map outline on an ankle
Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a foot and ankle showing a thin, single-line outline of the world's continents in dark ink. The linework is even and unshaded, with no fill or colour inside the outlines. A woven string anklet in green and blue sits above the tattoo against a blue denim background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
"Nobody at the reunion remembers that Mr Okafor made us trace the continents without lifting the pen," I said, and Gemma snorted into her prosecco as if I'd told a joke at her expense. The function room above the Crown smelled of carpet shampoo and warm crisps, and somebody's uncle was dancing alone by the fire door to Oasis.
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"I did Africa in one go," she said. "Got a sticker shaped like a globe for it. You ran out of biro at Brazil." It was true. Year Nine, Room 14, the smell of Tipp-Ex and wet coats. I had gone round the bulge of South America twice and the blue had skipped, leaving a gap I could still feel in my fingers. Mr Okafor held my sheet up to the window and said nothing, which was worse than a telling-off.
"I kept mine," Gemma said, and didn't say where. She said her daughter had asked why Australia looked like a sad kidney, and she'd had no answer except that it was ours. I told her I had mine too, folded in a shoebox at my mum's, with a dent where the pen had skidded past Cape Horn and torn the paper through. Neither of us had thought about that box in years.
Outside, the car park was black and the rain had started. Gemma dug a chewed biro out of her handbag and pressed it into my palm. "Go on, then." So I drew the world in the condensation on her car window with one finger. The Atlantic came out right. Brazil bulged where it should. I kept going without lifting until the rain ran Africa into a grey smear, and she stood under her umbrella laughing, holding it over both of us while the map dripped away.
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