He knows what’s going on up there, the silent little game they’re playing at his expense, but he is unfazed. So close to the prize now as he is. He looks up again into her eyes—his intended—and adds another smile into the mix as he reaches farther beneath her chair. One hand resting on the edge of her cushioned seat for support. He makes a meal out of this last gesture, really straining to get the maximum impact as his hand drifts over to her calf. Lands there for just an instant. Only a second, but it’s enough. Oh yes. The odd thing is, what really throws him, is how she handles the situation. As his fingers trace the dimpled mountain range of her sore, drifting across the jagged flesh as it works to repair itself, there is no reaction from the young lady. Well, that’s not completely true. She glances down at him—knowing full well what he’s doing now—and meets his gaze dead-on. Time seems to stop for a moment, or at least to stutter along like one of those overblown special effects they use in movies these days, as they look at each other. Tick, tick, tick. He can even hear the sweep of the second hand on her Swatch as it’s happening. He dares to make one last pass over the boo-boo as he snags an errant dime, then staggers to his feet and bows—a strange little gesture, to be sure—while he backs away. This time, though, only one of the girls is smiling. The tall one, the one with the wound, is just staring at him. Lips parted in a slight but obvious way. To call it inviting might be stretching it, but there’s something going on between them. Man and girl. Yes, indeed. Without question.

The moment is broken only by the shrill cry of “Sweetie!” near the front doors, repeated over and over. Like the fierce screech of a tropical bird it rises, above the sound of Barry Manilow’s “Mandy,” which filters politely in over the public address system. In unison, the girls crane their necks in the direction of the exit to see what all the fuss is about, and the man uses this moment to retreat. He darts back behind the women’s magazines and starts stumbling off toward the sound of that voice, grabbing desperately at an issue of Popular Mechanics as he passes. Making a beeline toward the sleepy-eyed boy at the nearest cash register. Hoping that this will be enough to cover his tracks.

Opportunity