Those legs. Smooth tanned legs. I thank the hot weather with its sticky heat for making you wear shorts. You wink at me, and that might have been enough. But I can’t stop staring at those legs and you know that I’m looking at them.

I sit on the steps, and you stand right in front of me so that they are inches from my face. Then you hook your thumb under the edge of your shorts and rub the top of your right leg because it itches. The harder and faster you rub, I see tantalising glimpses of black Calvin Kleins, except I know that these will be cheap knockoffs.

I light a cigarette and blow smoke towards them. It swirls around and disappears up your shorts.

I want to lick these legs, enjoy the salty taste, and bite them like someone who is unhinged. I don’t know what else to do.

You say something like “Do you like my legs?  Why don’t you lick them and bite them?” Except you don’t say that at all. Instead, you say, “My girlfriend is waiting outside.”