I looked down and up the yard; no soil or lawn or grass, only white tiles, and not a single one of them had the slightest stain or dirt. The ground was pure white all over, except for the small black lines that outline each square of the tile. 

“Hey,” a lady voice called out. 

When I looked up I saw her standing in the door way. It felt like I was on my phone last night, looking at those pictures of naked women. Mrs. Monroe. I’ve known about her through gossips of the other residents in the neighbourhood like Mam’ Khethi and others, and by sight I mean glimpses because her and her husband were never involved in outdoor business. She still isn’t. You’d barely see her outside. 

Though I had never thought she’d be anything like this! 

“Come in,” she smiled and gestured with a hand. When she turned to get in the house I saw the butt I had only seen when female asses were drawn and exaggerated by cartoonists. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I walked on the pure white tiles like I was stepping on egg shells. 

That’s when I realised something. So when we got inside the house, I asked Mrs. Monroe, “how are you going to hire me as a garden boy when your yard is covered with nothing but tiles?” I even forgot to greet her, if grandma was around she would’ve slapped me. 

But Mrs. Monroe laughed, and told me that obviously she didn’t mean this house but her other one across town. I admit I felt more stupid right then. Of course she’d have more than one house, why hadn’t I thought of that? 

She was wearing a gold rosary but I couldn’t see its cross because it was buried in her cleavage. It was so hard not to look at it, I had to fight to control my eyes and keep them at her face; felt like my eyes were about to pop out of my socket and start bouncing on the floor. Bouncing. Somehow they return to her cleavage and I imagine her boobs bouncing. 

“A drink?” 

“Ye – Yes, yes…please,” I said, licked my lower lip by mistake. She turned and led upstairs. Her ass. I swear to God it was like a cartoonist drew it, or she had some butt injections or implants, or she had taken all her clothes from the wardrobe and stuffed them inside her tights and panties. This was not normal. Far from it. 

I noticed some pictures in the lighting glass set, younger pictures of her and Mr. Monroe on their happy times. 

She poured me a glass of sprite from the double Samsung fridge, then she went to take a shower. 

But of course, having the mind that I had, I imagined myself sharing the shower with her. 

By the time she came out of the bathroom, it was already too late because she’d seen the mess I made on the floor. “Sorry, Mrs. Monroe, I’ll clean that up,” I said. 

“Oh, no, darling, call me Patty,” she said. And then she smiled, smelling of soap, her wet naked body covered in a white towel – how I wished there was a very powerful blow of the wind. She looked down on the mess I made and she thought I had spilled my Sprite drink. But Sprite is not what I had spilled out.