I try not to stare, but their legs are so long. Tan limbs lingering in line as if highlighting their youth. As if macchiato is a recipe for hotness. I fight the urge to try to claim and climb them, so I sit and observe from a distance. Some might say it’s more like leering. My eyes are cold accomplices. My iced tea keeps me from getting overheated. I don’t tell my wife the extent to which I admire college girls’ thighs. I also neglect to mention I stop into Starbucks on the way to work, not one to sip and tell. The last time we fucked was on Halloween. A token-love quickie handed out like generic, cheap candy. I’ve called her a witch and several other names. She’s called me a jackass on plenty of occasions, but never an -o-lantern. I tell myself it’s okay to look because the only thing left is a grinning face in the form of fate. We were never meant to marry so young, never intended to force a family for the sake of our son. I sit at the same table every morning and type like my life is written in short bursts. Golden skin. Denim-assed. Chiding voices the color of ghosts.