The Yard Has Ears

Image by Skica911 from Pixabay

“Don’t worry, Mary won’t be home for another two hours.”

Jennifer giggled, pulling off her top. “We better get a move on then.”

For the next ten minutes, Jennifer and Bill enjoyed the fruits of a three month adventure of flirting over their cubicle walls, innuendo at the water cooler, and dancing eyes across the cafeteria.

Just as things were getting heated, Jennifer glanced outside the window and froze. “What’s that thing doing?”

Panting, Bill turned to see what she was pointing at and raised his eyebrows. “Peeping Squirrel!” He crawled out from under the sheet and closed the curtain, then returned to his hard-earned reward.

Chattering from outside the window kept drawing their attention away from each other. The squirrel was so persistent, Bill lost his focus and soon Jennifer was loosing her patience.

Eventually, she pushed Bill off and sat on the edge of the bed. “I really thought it would be different,” she said, putting on her clothes. “Older men are supposed to be more experienced. How can a creepy little squirrel make you…well…you know.”

“Ah, come on.” He glanced at the clock on his phone. “Mary’s going to be home in twenty minutes.” Bill smiled and ran his fingers up Jennifer’s arm. “You could still have fun.”

Jennifer scoffed and stormed out of the bedroom. Bill rolled over as the front door slammed and sighed. She was the third woman that year that turned out to be a dud. Every time it was a distraction outside. First it was a strange owl, then a stray dog, and now an eavesdropping squirrel.

“I’m getting rid of every tree in that yard,” he said.

“Why?”

Bill jumped out of bed, realized he was still naked, and ran into the bathroom. Soon the sound of him vomiting covered up anything that Mary may be asking him. He was too busy to notice her grinning and shaking her head as she opened their bedroom curtains, taking several peanuts out of her nightstand drawer, and giving them to the squirrel. She’ll have to be more creative with her next helper.

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