It's these rented minutes that remind me how jealous I am of photographers, artists. Those with the talent to capture a moment, a scene, a face, a body. I pay for my coffee and take my seat in the corner. I search for the words to describe the sheer magnetism of her breasts. I fail miserably. The caffeine becomes secondary to her endowment. Each sip an excuse to gaze at her over my cup. Each turn of the novel's page gives me cover while I sneak a peek at the juncture where the narrow space between her bosoms meets the top of her shirt. I pay for my lust with wrinkled dollar bills and a mid-afternoon crash. But I'm a disciplined voyeur, so I postpone my erection. It is later, always later, in the loneliness of my apartment, that I think of her and my cock grows. Grows and hardens. Grows, hardens, and rises. I masturbate to my memory of her, wishing I had more. In the morning, I repeat the routine.