The kitten mewls. “What is it?” I ask, looking up. Every time a droplet hits the window, her eyes dart to it. She looks silly, and I giggle. I scoop her up and cuddle her. “Your first rain huh?’

The droplets double, then triple, their tempo increasing as they patter down on the glass and on the roof. The sky darkens from a dove grey to sheet metal, and a black shadow looms from the north. This may look like a rainshower, but it’s going to be a storm. I scoop up the kitten and go to tell the houseboy to bring the outdoor plants in the garage and check the outside of the house before it gets worse.

Even as I’m giving him instructions, he nods and acknowledges me with that same mechanical aloof attitude of his. He’s always been kind of distant and formal with me, which is fine, because I hired him primarily for work. Even having sex with him is like a formal act. Get on, go through the motions, ejaculate, slide off. It satisfies him. Cumming for me, in that situation, is more of a biological response than anything.  I get my rocks off with my other partners.

My houseboy notes my instructions with a final nod, then goes back to rolling out dough for savory pies that I love. I make sure to tell him I love them, just for good measure. He gives me a pleased smile, responds with a “Thank you, Sir, I appreciate that,” then turns back to his work. See? I’m pretty sure he’s a robot.

Thunder rumbles. We both look toward the window. Rain splatters on it. The boy makes a soft exhale, and goes to wash his hands. “Better do it now.” I agree this is a good idea, and feeling bad that I’ve sent him out into the rain, I put on my housecoat and help him drag the big planters into the garage. The others we put into the sun room closest to the backyard.

Soon as that’s over, he’s back to the bread. I go back to my writing, and I wait.

I’ve never brought it up after it happened the first time, and he never looks like he expects me too, but I know it will happen. Around 1:30 am the next morning, it does. I hear the footsteps. I hear the door creak ever so softly. I feel someone moved the sheets, and a body slide in. I feel his warmth against me, and I can smell his shampoo from his recent shower. He always thinks I’m asleep, but I’m a light sleeper. I let him think that.
He’ll be awake before me, slide out, and pretend he was never there – even go so far as to adjust the sheets to cover his presence.
The first time he did tried to climb into bed with me, I woke up and harried and ruffled. I was completely baffled and demanded an explanation. His sullen, embarrassed face told me we were very close to that Line that he doesn’t like to cross. His eyes looked pained. I rubbed my face, as he stood there shifting, but eventually I just lifted up the blanket and invited him in.
No more questions.

Now, I look forward to inclement weather and his mysterious visits. This storm was particularly bad, and he was early tonight. I was glad my smile was hidden in the dark.

You can’t imagine how astonished I was to wake up and find him still in bed with me. I stared at his sleeping face in complete fascination, doe-brown hair fanned around the soft lines of his face on the pillow. With intense caution, I moved his arm off of me, and slid out of bed, doing my best to be in ultra stealth mode. It took me a full minute to tip toe to the bathroom. God, why did I wake up to pee at 5 am? I never get up to pee this early. The light of dawn was just coming through the window. I do the deed, and hurry back to bed. It’s chilly out here!

Climbing back in is just as agonizing as getting out was. By some miracle, I don’t wake him up. He barely stirs. I reset myself, then praise myself for my incredible accomplishment. I spent the rest of my time awake, staring at his beautiful face, listening to the weakened rain pitter-patter on my window until I doze off again.

When I wake up again, he has already escaped.

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Captions are fictional.