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.

About Daniel Romo

Daniel Romo is the author of When Kerosene’s Involved (Mojave River Press, 2014) and Romancing Gravity (Silver Birch Press, 2013). He is the Co-founder/Editor at Wherewithal and Head Poetry Editor at Cease, Cows. He teaches creative writing and lives in Long Beach, CA. More at danielromo.net.

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