He's the eighth boy I've heard discussing my girlfriend's hotness. Damn her family of Italian, Columbian, and Spanish ancestors for giving her the looks of -crossed-with-Sofia Vergara- and- Giselle. Right now, I hate genetics. I wish she'd stop laughing with boy number five and come over here. It's getting harder to reign in my temper, and I'm going to catch hell from everyone if I'm the "Jackass who started a brawl on his girlfriend's birthday."
She comes over. From where I'm sitting I have a perfect view of her legs.
"Nick, check me out later." I smile because I will.