A drop of blood has gathered on her calf now, at the top of the wound. Nothing very alarming, mind you, simply a spot of red that has gone unchecked for the last few minutes. In fact, you’d really have to be looking to even notice it. But then that’s what he’s doing, of course. Gawking. He’s moved beyond staring, you see, shifted into third, and shot right past staring on the straightaway. He is openly gawking now, and it’s anybody’s guess how long he can keep it up. He does realize this, of course; he’s been doing this long enough to know when he’s merely staring and when it becomes more than that. When it makes its way over into the realm of something really special. And this young lady, with her delicious limbs curled up beneath her brushed metal chair, is about as special as any person could ever hope to be. So, so special.

An argument erupts at the checkout stand and the man snaps his head around, sensing that his time is almost up. The raised voices up front belong to his wife—well, one of them, anyway. Sometimes it sounds like she has two voices, actually, the noise that emits from her. It would be hard for anyone, at least the casual passer-by, to believe that so much volume could come from a single person, but he knows better. Oh yes. It’s her, all right. He can just make out the finer points of the discussion, something about her Reader’s Advantage card being expired and “Would you care to extend your buying power at this time?” or something like that. All he knows is that she, his wife, keeps saying no very loudly and heads are starting to turn. Not the girls, thankfully, as they keep sucking on the straws of their very grown-up iced coffees—to be fair, they’re covered in whipped cream and chocolate jimmies—and pointing at photos in an issue of YM.