“Wait,” she said, panting, “stop for a second.”
“Huh, wha—” he said, growing still above her. “What’s wrong?”
“Is that . . .”
“I know,” he said bashfully. “I was trying something I read—”
“Not you,” she said. “Quiet.” Then after a moment’s consideration, she whispered, “but you should definitely keep going with that in a minute.”
“Okay, great!” he whispered back. “But then why—”
She paused a moment longer, then nodded confidently. “It’s definitely a goat.”
He looked beneath the sheets, “It’s a . . . I don’t . . .”
And how could he refuse that playful smile or the twinkle in her eyes, especially when she was naked beneath him. So he listened. He waited. He heard the pounding of his veins and the quiet music he had put on earlier, but nothing else. “What am I—” And then he heard it, an unmistakable bleating.
“Goat,” she repeated. “We gotta check it out.”
“But . . . now?”
They disentangled, gathered the blankets around them, and peaked through the blinds above the headboard. Sure enough, standing in the apartment parking lot was a brown LaMancha goat staring directly at their window.
“I don’t like that,” he whispered.
“Do you still want to . . .”
The goat bleated.
* * *
Story by Gregory M. Fox