He grabbed my arm and pulled it towards his face to look at the small five-pointed star I had drawn on my wrist in black ball-point pen. It had smeared a little. One point was not as defined as the others. “What is this?” he asked in his thick Greek accent.
“It’s a tattoo,” I said.
“No it isn’t. This is ink.”
“Do you want one?”
He ignored me because he started talking to someone else.
“Do you want one?” I repeated.
“I already have a lot of tattoos.”
“Well do you want another one?”
He put his hand out. “My wife would kill me.”
I took his hand and drew a small star on the back of his hand just like the one on my wrist.
An older man nearby asked, “What is that?”
“It’s a tattoo. It means we are friends,” I said.
He grabbed my arm again and touched his star to mine.
“Friends.” he said.
Still wet, the ink from his star smudged onto my arm. I rubbed it off.
“One star for one friend,” he said. “I have a million stars right here,” making a circle in the air in front of his chest.