Mid-summer afternoons in the villa vacation home in the rich countryside of German occupied France never failed to press their incessant sultriness upon you. It was days like these when you found yourself lounged against the billiards table in the dim library of your family’s estate, fidgeting restlessly with a cue stick as you battled the bothersome sensations of summery humidity: one of your socks riding higher than the other; your camisole fitting oddly tight in the heat of the late day; the balmy stick of your palm against the pool cue that caused your brow to furrow. And the painfully languid scene of your husband flipping his newspaper page. You sighed.

“You look uncomfortable, liebling”

His voice cuts through the silent, muggy atmosphere. Grey eyes remain fixed on the newspaper before him, dying cigarette abandoned in the ashtray. It’s that subtle inflection toward the end of his words that piques your ear. As if, perhaps, he already knows the cause of your childlike antsiness.

The leather of his chair creaks as he takes his time setting the folded newspaper aside, finally shifting his attention upon you. Those grey eyes move lazily from the top of your head all the way down your figure, lingering ever so slightly at the spot just above your collarbone where your camisole slips lower than usual. And then they’re back up. You almost catch yourself letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding back.

“Are you too hot?”

Hans had always been a wife pleaser and never wanted anything less. God forbid you are anything less than satisfied.