White ink script tattoo reading you are enough across the inner wrist, with a fine flowing swash beneath the words.

You are enough script on the wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close view of a wrist bearing the phrase you are enough in flowing cursive script. The lettering is rendered in white ink, so it appears as a pale, raised-looking outline against the skin rather than as dark ink. A thin swash line curves beneath the final word, and the background is dark plastic sheeting.

Lettering Forearm Script Phrase

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

White lead on black glass is an unforgiving medium, and my father never let me forget it. You cannot fudge a stroke on it. The brush has to be loaded just so, and you have to commit before the bristles dry. I had been painting shopfronts in Scarrow Bay for eleven years by then, gold on black for the chandler and the undertaker, and I thought I knew what I was doing when Mrs Ansell brought in the panel.

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She didn't want a shop name. She wanted four words, nothing else, to hang in the back parlour where her husband had kept his pipe. She had written them out on the back of a tide table in pencil, and the hand was shaky but careful, every loop given room. You are enough. I asked whether she wanted it gold. She shook her head and said white, the colour of the surf coming in past the breakwater, so it would show in the lamplight and not swallow itself.

I worked through the Tuesday with the window shut against the damp. The capitals took the longest, and the y in 'you' gave me trouble, its tail dragging like a rope off a mooring. When I came to the final word I lifted the brush and hesitated, the way you do when you're tired. Then I remembered my father's voice telling me that a line you stop is a line you have to explain. So I drew the swash out under 'enough' in one long pull, past the edge of the word, and let it curl back toward the frame.

Mrs Ansell took the panel without speaking. When she came back for it on Friday she held it up to the window, and the white caught the grey light and stood out clean from the black, like frost on a wet slate. She said nothing about the swash. She just ran her thumb along it once, the way you'd test a seam, and paid me in coins I had to count twice.