Claire comes out of the shower, but where are her clothes?

[If Calire is above 5]

It's been two days of her in every corner of your life: breakfast at the Lesecafé, the walk home, the tourtière, the ridiculous board game, the way she says your name when she thinks you aren't listening. You've cleared the plates, wiped down the counter, and turned the lamp in the living room down to a low amber, and you're standing at the window pretending to watch the street when the bathroom door opens behind you.

"John? Are you still up?"

You turn around, and you forget, briefly, how to form a sentence.

Claire is standing in the hallway with a large white towel wrapped tightly around her, tucked at the chest, falling to the middle of her thighs. Her thin legs stretchinf out beneath her, the outline of her perky bosom bebeath the towel, and her wet hair make for a wonderful view.

And that wet hair of hers is dripping onto her bare shoulders. Her skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, and there are small beads of water on her collarbone that catch the lamplight, and she is holding a second, smaller towel in one hand, looking at you with a slightly guilty, slightly challenging expression.

"I forgot my clothes," she says. "In my room. I was going to sneak. Obviously, you ruined that."

"I'm.... sorry. I can go."

"Don't." It comes out quickly, then she softens it with a smile. "It's fine. We're adults. Share a kitchen, share a bathroom, share a very large apartment." She crosses to the couch and sits down on the arm, one leg crossed over the other, the towel riding up a fraction and then, carefully, adjusted. "Come sit. I want to dry my hair and you're good company."

You sit. A little too carefully. You are scared of crossing a line, of your hand brushing againat skin, of going to far and causing offense. The couch is old and deep, and the cushion tips you toward her, and she doesn't pretend not to notice.

"You're staring," she murmurs, not unkindly.

"I'm trying very hard not to."

"You're failing beautifully." She rubs the small towel against her hair, her head tilted, and you watch a bead of water follow the line of her neck. The bigger towel is sliding downward, slowly, revealing the upper half of her perky tits. They are not big. But they are not small either, and they seem sharp, shaped like teardrops. "It's all right. I'm not offended. I'm a little flattered, actually."

"I should say something gentlemanly."

"You could." Her mouth curves. "Or you could say something honest."

You think about it. The apartment is silent. The only sound is the faint drip of the shower down the hall and your own pulse. "I'd say it's been a very long two days," you tell her, "and that I've spent most of them wanting to be wherever you were."

Her hands go still on the towel.

"Well," she says softly. "That's honest."

She slides down from the arm of the couch and onto the cushion beside you, close, her bare knee pressed against your thigh, and sets the damp towel aside. She smells of warm skin and vanilla soap. When she turns her head, her eyes are very dark.

"Tell me something," she says. "Have you been thinking about it too? What it would be like, I mean. Us."

"Since the Lesecafé."

"Since before the Lesecafé, in my case, but I'll let you have the lead." She lets out a short, unsteady laugh. She reaches over and, deliberately, rests her hand on yours on the cushion, her thumb tracing slow circles on your knuckles. "I've been trying to be sensible. I'm not good at it."

"I'm not either."

"No?" Her fingers slide between yours. "That's reassuring."

For a long moment you sit there, the amber light low around you, her shoulder against yours, her breath warm on your neck. It would be so easy to lean in. You can feel that she knows it, that she's waiting, and that she isn't going to make it easy for either of you to decide.

It's her who breaks the quiet, abruptly, with a nervous little laugh. "Okay. This is ridiculous. Let me talk about something else before I do something we haven't discussed."

"Please."

"Colocataires." She pulls her knees up, careful with the towel, and wraps her free arm around them. "The apartment. Term starts in a few weeks, you know. It isn't going to stay like this."

"There are eight bedrooms, Claire. Surely someone's going to move in."

"Eventually. Student housing is a lottery. I've been here half a year and the only person who's shown up is you." She smiles. "But when they do, it's going to be strangers. Four, five, six of them, banging doors at three in the morning, borrowing my pans, leaving the bathroom in a state. Or, if we find the right people, we can make requests. And the people moving in can be friends, not strangers we don't know, leaving their dirty dishes everywhere."

"Or someone who does yoga on the floor."

"There's always one." She grimaces comically, then goes quiet. "I'll miss this, though. The quiet. Having the whole place to ourselves. I didn't expect to feel that way."

"We'll have a say in who moves in. Probably."

"We'd better. I'm not living with a man who labels his yoghurt." She squeezes your hand. "But I wanted to say, before it changes. I like how it is. Whatever this is."

"So do I."

"Good." She exhales, and for a second the nerve in her voice cracks. "Because I'm a little afraid, you know. That when the others come, it'll be harder to be like this. Easy. Unobserved."

"Then we'll make the most of the quiet."

"That," she says, with a small, trembling smile, "is a very good plan."

You stay like that for a while longer, her head tipping gradually against your shoulder, her wet hair cool through your shirt, her fingers still wound through yours. At some point you notice she's stopped talking, and that her breathing has slowed, and that the tension in the room has transformed into something quieter and deeper.

"I should go to bed," she whispers at last. She doesn't move.

"You should."

"Before I do something I'd regret."

"Would you regret it?"

She lifts her head. Her eyes search your face, her lips parted, and for a long, suspended second you are sure that she is going to kiss you. Then she exhales, a small, ragged laugh, and presses her forehead briefly against yours.

"No," she says. "That's the problem."

She rises, holding the towel firmly, and pulls you gently to your feet by the hand. She stands very close, hair dripping, cheeks pink, and lifts herself on her toes to kiss the corner of your mouth, a feather of warmth that is over almost before it begins.

"Bonne nuit, John. Dors bien. Si tu peux."

"Bonne nuit, Claire."

She releases your hand, picks up her small towel, and walks down the hall, the large towel big enough to envelop her entire body, but giving a glimpse of her thighs with each step. Then, glancing back once at her door, she drops the towel. The entire naked backside of her body comes into view. Her ass is bigger than you thought it would be. Round and soft, but not fat. "Uuuups." Claire purrs, with a look that is half apology, half promise.

The door closes softly. You stand alone in the lamplight with your heart going like a drum, a damp spot on your shoulder, and the faint scent of vanilla in the air, and you know with perfect certainty that you aren't going to sleep for a very long time.