The next night, I told myself I wouldn’t look for him.
I cooked dinner, washed the dishes, turned on the TV, and tried to pretend I didn’t keep glancing toward the window that faced his house. It was a warm evening, the kind that made the air thick, heavy, and restless. My nightshirt clung to my skin, my hair stuck to the back of my neck, and every nerve in my body seemed too aware of the man who lived next door.
By the time the clock slid toward midnight, I gave up pretending.
The soft glow of warm lights spilled from his patio, unlike last night’s darkness. A breeze carried the faint sound of slow music across the short stretch of lawn between us. His glass doors were open, the curtains moving lazily in the wind. He wasn’t standing outside, but I could feel him there.
I stepped out o
