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.”

“For real?”

He shrugged.

“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.

Lucky you.

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