The horns sound and we spook in lockstep. I’ve never known what the recorded trumpeting noise is meant to represent, but believe me, it’s the classiest thing that happens all day.  A dollop of regalness atop our Coors Light and overcooked hamburgers. When everyone else stands, we stand, like hungover Catholics in mass, en masse, ennui. Joi de vivre.

I have a skirt for the track. A big pocket for ready cash, a smaller one for the next race’s tickets, and a very, very small one for winning tickets. My pocket for won cash is empty, yet and often.

It’s the 9th, and the 22 to 1 long shot that my 7-year-old son bet on twice busted early through the gate and then threw her rider.

Lie down with me for a while, and let's sip wine and talk. She is suggestively suggesting. Here's the Times, she says, but I already did the crossword, and it's Saturday. The whole thing. Plus, I also did the sudoku in pen. I get fucked for that don't I baby? Her sarcastic winking and nodding and grinning is adorable.
 
You're a romantic, I say.
 
Yes, more so than you could stomach, trust me. Her. She's speaking again here, and like most women, it not only doesn't end, but it resonates and echoes through my belly, just above my cock, as if I hear a kitten begging for cream. I love the creamy butterscotch of her thighs, and so I'm attentive.

At Starbucks, he pretended not to have burned the roof of his mouth.  He said nothing as Michelle established the rules - his tongue only, anywhere.  He knew her grin was in response to his red face.