I follow him for a half-block as he emerges from the gym onto Market Street, his sleeveless shirt damp with sweat. He swings a bag over his shoulder and checks his voicemail, and at the light I kick him in the butt and he swings around, bright eyes widening, pale colored over a dark-stubbled face. Shit, motherfucker, I want to say, why do you look so good? He wraps his arms around me for a moment and I lean in to kiss his sweaty neck. Says he feels better already, seeing me. At the intersection I step into the street and for a moment we’re the same height, and when we look at each other I’m reminded of a book I read, many years ago, about a woman having an affair. When she first meets the man she experiences a jolt of sexual recognition; they’re the same height, and when they look at each other it’s the same view as it would be in bed, lying together, looking into each other’s eyes. He scans my face, looks at my eyes and what else? my mouth? What are you looking at, I want to ask. Instead I let him go, I leave, …I walk away like a movie star, who gets burned in a three-way split…

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