From the Sidelines

It seems I have always sat here watching men like you — who turn heads, whose gaze is always either a kiss or a slap or the whiplash of pure disregard. Why fret? All you’re doing is walking. You’re this year’s It, the one righteous integer of cool cruising down a great-lipped channel of hushed adoration, women turned girls again, brightening in spite of themselves. That brave, wilting smile — you don’t see it, do you? How she tells herself to move on; blinks until she can.