These are the things that make you jealous:
A girl’s hair on the train, spread out like fire bursts on some grey stranger’s shoulder.
The color of fresh eggs, cracked against the frying pan and firming in the heat.
Paper folded twelve times lengthwise, incapable of bending to another pair of hands.
The music in the moment when the music has just ended: chairs and footsteps and cat-calls and whispers; one last note, choking in the rafters.
Friends meeting for the first time.
Lovers parting for the last time.
Strangers who turn to see if they’ve left on their headlights, or linger to count correct change. People who pause on the sidewalk, who never meet and never part, never laugh or cry or shout or leave marks that one day fade into scars. These make you most jealous of all.