Twilight backyard. Clotilde’s small garden. Old tree shadows stretch long. Quiet suburb snores behind thin fences. Her house backs mine, gate always ajar. I slip in for tea. She’s on the stone bench. Pale skin glows. Chignon tight. Glasses perch on sharp nose. Eyes meet. Mine burn sudden. Cock twitches hard. No more prissy chat. Heart hammers. Neighbors’ lights dim. Everyone beds down early. I step close. Hand brushes her knee. She startles. ‘Jean-Émile?’ Whisper. Breeze rustles leaves. Fence slats glow faint porch light next door. Risky. Her lips part. I grab her waist. Pull tight. No turning back. Threshold crossed. Her breath hitches. ‘Shh,’ I hiss. Houses so close. One creak away from eyes.