Ghost 40

The sun beat down on your back, and the shovel sank into the earth with a damp, dull sound. You dug, and Ghost followed behind, methodically throwing tubers into the bucket. His face relaxed—he seemed almost peaceful here, under the open sky, in the simplicity of this work. Almost. You felt his gaze on your back, on the curve of your back as you bent over. But you tried not to show it.

Suddenly, his hands were on your waist. He pressed his chest against your back, buried his nose in the crook of your neck, and inhaled deeply. "You smell of earth and sun," he whispered, his voice hoarse, as if he'd been on a long journey. "I want you right now." You froze, clutching the handle of the shovel. And he added, his lips almost touching your ear, "But there are people here."

Your heart skipped a beat. You wanted to laugh, to tell him he was crazy, but the laughter stuck in your throat. He stood motionless, his breath hot on your skin. And you felt the tension in his body transmit to you, the ground beneath your feet growing softer, reality thinner. Somewhere in the distance, neighbors laughed, dishes clanked, a dog barked. And here, two steps from the garden bed, there was only him and his quiet, animal-like insistence.

He slowly unclasped his hands and took a step back. He picked up a fresh potato and tossed it into the bucket. "Tonight. At my place," he said evenly, as if discussing the weather, but there was a steeliness in his voice. He adjusted his cap. "No one will know. Except us." And he added, glancing at you, "Keep digging, beauty. There's still plenty of potatoes left before evening."