Dawn Jean Crawford
Alec Niedenthal

It is my neighbor’s wife, Dawn Jean Crawford, and my neighbor, so close our houses almost are a single, bigger house. A fence divides our houses, but if it were not for that fence we might have crowdedly the same house.

I call my son into his bedroom. “Come in here,” I say, but he is already on his way here.

I’m posted on the footboard of his bed, sitting and my head turned to the window.

“Look here,” I say. I set my palm flat on his bedspread, which is undone. He sits where my hand had been before that, and I point to his window, trailing his gaze out there.

He hurries to the window, reveling, kissing it with his nose. I rush to dim the lights.

“Mrs. Crawford?” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

I’m not admiring the sad golden lighting of their second-story bedroom; though I have admired it in the past. Dawn Jean Crawford removes her cotton blouse. I go over and touch my son on his head.

The bearish block of my son’s head I see in the window. His eyes bug, run. His whole body clenches, tenses, and I lower then down to the bed. I unfold my legs far out in front of me.

Dawn Jean Crawford reveals two fingers and fits them in the valve of her, beginning to plumb around. My neighbor looks cross.

“He needs to relax,” I say.

Dawn Jean Crawford has thought the same as me. She cranks him back until he lies flat on the bed, and removes her brassiere.

“I would like to suck on those tits,” my son says.

“Son, now,” I say.

My neighbor has no erection. I am disappointed, aroused. Dawn Jean Crawford exposes her fingers finally. Now she is skating over his body with her knees, now ready to plant herself somewhere on there.

“I would spank that ass,” my son says.

“Son,” I say.

I leave and softly close the door. I hear my son moving around in his dark. I pad over to my father’s room and wake him. His lights are all on, and quietly I prepare his wheelchair.

“Dad, Dad, wake up,” I say.

My father will not wake up.

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