I envy morning that breaks over his strong chest. I envy noon that calls him to lunch. I envy evening that sees his eyes grow tired from screening, and night—I envy her arms, her bed linen enfolding his warm limbs while he sleeps. I envy his car: rear view mirror catching his glances, gear-shift knob responding to his warm hand, clutch knowing the pressure of his foot, ignition accepting his key. I envy the route his car takes to work and the other drivers who might catch a glimpse of him as he goes. and I envy the music he listens to, and I envy the clothes that rub against his toned body, and I envy all of his co-workers who see his bright face lighting up from cheery banter. I envy his coffee cup, his fork, and spoon, and the table under which his legs rest while he dines— most of all: I envy the waitress with whom he flirts, glimpsing her breasts, wondering how they would feel in his hands and on his naked chest, and how she would sound moving under him.
