“Honey, are you almost done?” David whispered, trying not to disturb the cat, Mittens, who was inexplicably draped across his ankles like a furry, judgmental scarf.
From somewhere beneath him, a muffled voice responded. “Almost! Just… did you remember to close the blinds?”
David froze. The blinds. In their new apartment, the enormous picture window faced directly into Mrs. Henderson’s meticulously curated orchid garden. And Mrs. Henderson, bless her nosy heart, was an early riser. And it was, unequivocally, no longer night.
“The blinds are… currently… enjoying the morning sun,” David confessed, his voice a low groan.
There was a sudden, horrified squeak from beneath him, followed by a flurry of movement that felt less like passionate lovemaking and more like a squirrel trying to escape a particularly soft nutcracker.
“DAVID! Get off! Get off now!” Sarah shrieked, her voice suddenly much less muffled.
David scrambled, tumbling off the bed with all the grace of a startled giraffe. He tripped over Mittens, who let out an indignant “MEOW!”, and landed with a thump that rattled the antique nightstand.
Sarah, meanwhile, was already a blur of motion, diving under the covers like a highly effective submarine. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” she chanted, her voice muffled by the duvet. “She saw us! Mrs. Henderson definitely saw us! I saw her little gardening hat!”
David, rubbing his throbbing elbow, peered cautiously over the windowsill. Indeed, Mrs. Henderson was out there, watering her orchids. Her back was to them, but David swore he could feel the radiating warmth of her disapproval.
“She probably didn’t see anything,” David tried, though his face was burning.
“She’s wearing her gossiping hat,” Sarah insisted, peeking out from under the covers, her eyes wide with terror. “It’s the one with the extra-large brim for maximum peripheral vision!”
Suddenly, there was a sharp tap-tap-tap at the windowpane.
David and Sarah both froze, staring. Mrs. Henderson was standing at the window, not looking at them, but pointing emphatically at a wilting orchid on her patio. She then gave a sharp, disapproving shake of her head and went back to her gardening.
Sarah slowly emerged, her eyes wide. “What did she want?”
“I think… I think she was telling me off for not watering her orchids,” David ventured, thoroughly confused.
Sarah stared at him, then at the window, then back at him. A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “You know what this means, right?”
David gulped. “That we need blackout blinds?”
“No,” Sarah purred, pulling him back towards the bed. “It means we have to be much louder next time. Just to make sure she hears the whole story.”
Mittens, meanwhile, had settled back onto David’s now-exposed calves, clearly ready for round two of judgmental lounging.
