Simon’s giving the dog his last walk of the evening. He’s on the last third of a cigarette when the dog stops to sniff around the trunk of a tree.
He exhales into the sky then glances down the gap between the houses, and the sightline runs clear across two dark gardens, straight to the back of his house — the kitchen window, blinds up, overhead lights blazing, and you crossing the kitchen right in front of it—
completely nude.
Five seconds, maybe, and you’re gone from the frame, but he’s already doing the recon — the angle of the gap, height of the fence, the pub that turns out people all night — and the information is saying that every pissed bloke stumbling home gets the full exhibition, compliments of his wife.
He sucks down the last of his cigarette as he picks up the pace home, the dog jogging alongside him. He flicks the butt into the street and turns down the path. The back door bangs behind him. You’re still at the counter, and you’re still naked, spooning peanut butter out of the jar. You smile up at him and the dog runs down the hall with the leash dragging.
“Good walk?”
“The blinds,” he points at the window.
“What about them?”
“They’re open.”
You look at the window and furrow your brows. “It’s dark out.”
“It’s dark out there.” He crosses the kitchen and yanks the cord, the slats fall down with a clatter. “I saw ya from the road. If I can see ya, so can every sod stumblin’ home from The Fox.”
“You saw me from the road?”
“Yes!” He points back with his thumb through the wall, in the vague direction of the gap.
“Huh,” you shrug. You dig the spoon back into the jar, unalarmed. “That’s actually kinda impressive.”
He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “There’s a pub at the end of that road, love,” he reiterates.
You lick the spoon clean and talk around the mouthful. “Simon, I really don’t care. It’s hot, nothing fits me anymore, and your son sat on my bladder all damn day.” You gesture at yourself with the spoon — the growing swell of your belly. “Did I mention nothing fits me?”
His eyes drop to your stomach and the scolding dies, the way it always does these days.
“Nothin’ fits?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got my shirts.”
“Your shirts fit you.” You let him pull you in, his hand finding the curve of belly, splaying across the side. “We outgrew them weeks ago.”
He’s quite a second, thumb rubbing over the spot the baby kicked this morning. “New rule. Clothes off means blinds down.”
“And if I break it?” you tease.
“You won’t,” he grumbles. “And I’m buyin’ bigger shirts.”
