“I like your tattoo,” the waitress said before she left.

His shirt had fallen open, revealing the ink on his chest. Close up, I could see it was a sun with a symbol in it. “Thanks,” he said, adjusting his shirt to cover it up.

When we were alone again, I spoke. “I like your tattoo as well.” I cleared my throat. “What does it mean?”

He looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t mean to pry.” I hugged my arms ...