They are both wearing their start-of-summer gear, featuring a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. Soon, as the days drag on and the heat starts to get at them, they’ll trade this in for tank tops or swimsuits, probably the same shorts—they both wear the cute, girlie kind that’s too short and tight for their own good—and flip-flops. But for now, right now, they are content with this. This “look.” Besides, neither one seems brave enough to attempt a solo run, a dash for the summit. No. Each outfit appears to have been carefully selected by a committee of two through a series of elaborate phone calls or e-mails that allows for no mishap. In other words, they know exactly what they’re doing.

That’s what he’s thinking, anyway, standing there just off to the side and pretending to read Art in America as he studies the tall one’s legs. Well, perhaps “study” is too strong a word for what he’s doing. That would seem to imply an intense, open sort of examination of his subject, all in the name of science or some other significant goal. No, staring might be more like it. The covert kind of staring, to be precise, of the type practiced by middle-aged men who have no real business or purpose for being in a Barnes & Noble on a Thursday afternoon. That’s what he’s doing. Staring.

It’s not her legs, per se, that interest him, although they are fine and long and brown. Like the gangly appendages of a newborn colt or that one black runner who won a gold medal or two a few years back. He can’t recall her name right now, but this gal’s lower half is a bit like hers. Or, better yet, like that young woman who lives catty-corner to his house, the one whose parents recently divorced and her mother moved across town so he sees her less frequently now. The daughter, that is. This girl’s legs are just like hers. Full of life and youth and promise.

Except for the cut, of course. That’s what makes them different. Helps them stand out. It’s not a fresh wound, no, but more like a week old or so. He’s no authority, obviously, but if he had to venture a guess, say, found himself on a game show with a new Volvo on the line, then he’d probably say a week. What leads him to this, this guess, is the color of the scabbing and the general state of the mark. See, she’s already been scratching at the thing, picking at it while she’s been on the phone or watching the Disney Channel.