It’s three PM.

Work’s been running long and I finally get a chance to take a break. I decide to drop into Gino’s and grab a couple of slices for a late lunch. I’m in a booth, waiting for my slices, and I’m twisting my wedding ring on and off my finger like it’s a bottlecap. Almost a year, and I’m still fiddling with it like a kid who hasn’t read the instructions for his new toy.

In walk a trio of girls from the high school across the street. The uniform seems to be all spaghetti straps, Daisy Dukes, and flip flops. Of course I’m checking them out.

The thing that gets me, though, is my reaction. I’m flashing forward to a conversation with my own teenage daughter, who right now is still a couple of months from being born.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I see myself telling her. “You’re not going out dressed like that!”