He’s brought back to his commute by the ring of a nearby cellphone. As common as they are, neither Sandy nor his fellows are inured to them; he watches as several neighboring passengers join him in locating the instrument and paying discreet attention to the conversation. It’s a miniature black device pulled out of the suit pocket of a youngish white guy. As usual the conversation doesn’t sound important. As usual, the first question the passenger answers is where he is (“we’re just coming into Balboa Park now”), the next one is his ETA at some appointment, and the rest of the conversation is low fidelity blather. It’s obvious to everyone overhearing it that the call, like most cellphone calls, like most telephone calls in general, is unnecessary. But that way lies grumpiness. Sandy can feel himself becoming curmudgeonly. He decides to stay young. Think about sex instead.

He considers Karen. He sees her a hundred times a day at work. What is she: 24? She’d have to have at least a couple of years of graduate work to be where she is in the Service but that plump face looks 17… Some things he’d like to do with that face…

He has always admired young women. He was almost nine years old when the next door neighbor had a daughter, and Sandy was besotted with Tracy from birth. Her coltish friends started coming around as he entered full puberty. His earliest fantasies included visions of infant girls being handled a little brusquely on pediatric examining tables. As his libido developed his imagination was peopled with the angular limbs of growing girls.

When he met his wife she was young. They’ve known each other 15 years now – been married for nine – so Phyllis at first was 21. Looked younger, with her freckled pale skin, high breasts, flat belly. He practically ate her freckles back then: he was so into her. But that was in the Ridgecrest commune days, long ago and far from now. Phyllis matured in some undesirable way shortly after he married her, and since James’s birth… well, she’s become so maternal she’s practically bovine. Who’d have thought those firm breasts could grow so pendulous, so fast? That belly so pillowy?

Sandy realizes his thoughts have grown negative again as the train pulls into the 24th Street Station. He looks around and locates a mood elevator. Getting on the train, dressed inappropriately. Short skirt, cropped tank top under a baggy hooded Raiders jacket. Acres of smooth leg between those lace-up clunky boots and the black Lycra. Oh yes. A silver belly button ring in golden flesh. Sandy imagines taking that ring in his teeth – galvanic thrill in his fillings – cupping that ass… and remembers himself rockhard embarrassed behind his physics book, yearning unstoppable in his old Corvair, prevailing now and then, with skinny Gretchen and with his brother’s friend Claire. No finesse but an amazing amount of vigor. Youth is wasted on the young.

Sandy’s interest is at first dampened when he realizes the girl is with her boyfriend. Anyway, a guy gets on the train with her, and Sandy assumes he’s her boyfriend. Assumes any male would be. Yeah: her boyfriend. They can’t find seats but they’re standing in the aisle by Sandy, and the guy’s right up against her back with his hand on her hip. They’re very much a couple; she’s leaning into his hand in an unmistakable way now…

By the time they get to 16th Street, Sandy thinks he’s not going to get off the train at Civic Center. He’s having a strange day. He’s very interested in a young couple that is very interested in each other. He’s feeling not normal and he’s liking it.